and I will never regret that, will we, Emilietta?" said the
priest.

A lively colour had come into the Duchessa's cheeks; her eyes
seemed unusually bright. Her hair was in some disorder,
drooping at the sides, and blown over her brow in fine free
wavelets. It was dark in the kitchen, save for the firelight,
which danced fantastically on the walls and ceiling, and struck
a ruddy glow from Marietta's copper pots and pans. The rain
pattered lustily without; the wind wailed in the chimney; the
lightning flashed, the thunder volleyed. And Peter looked at
the Duchessa--and blessed the elements. To see her seated
there, in her wet gown, seated familiarly, at her ease, before
his fire, in his kitchen, with that colour in her cheeks, that
brightness in her eyes, and her hair in that disarray--it was
unspeakable; his heart closed in a kind of delicious spasm.
And the fragrance, subtle, secret, evasive, that hovered in the
air near her, did not diminish his emotion.

"I wonder," she asked, with a comical little glance upwards at
him, "whether you would resent it very much if I should take
off my hat--because it's a perfect reservoir, and the water
will keep trickling down my neck."

His joy needed but this culmination that she should take off
her hat!

"Oh, I beg of you--" he returned fervently.

"You had better take yours off too, Emilia," said the Duchessa.