fireplaces," he groaned, with a gesture round the bleak Italian
room, to certify their absence.

"Is n't there a kitchen?" asked the Duchessa, a faint spark of
raillery kindling amid the forlornness of her smile.

Peter threw up his hands.

"I had lost my head. The kitchen, of course. I 'll tell
Marietta to light a fire."

He excused himself, and sought out Marietta. He found her in
her housekeeper's room, on her knees, saying her rosary, in
obvious terror. I 'm afraid he interrupted her orisons
somewhat brusquely.

"Will you be so good as to start a rousing fire in the kitchen
--as quickly as ever it can be done?"

And he rejoined his guests.

"If you will come this way--" he said.

Marietta had a fire of logs and pine-cones blazing in no time.
She courtesied low to the Duchessa, lower still to the priest
--in fact, Peter was n't sure that she did n't genuflect before
him, while he made a rapid movement with his hand over her
head: the Sign of the Cross, perhaps.

He was a little, unassuming-looking, white haired priest, with