"Admire masculine foresight," said the priest. "I took mine
off when I came in."

"Let me hang them up," said Peter.

It was wonderful to hold her hat in his hand--it was like
holding a part of herself. He brushed it surreptitiously
against his face, as he hung it up. Its fragrance--which met
him like an answering caress, almost--did not lessen his
emotion.

Then Marietta brought the tea, with bread-and-butter, and
toast, and cakes, and pretty blue china cups and saucers, and
silver that glittered in the firelight.

"Will you do me the honour of pouring the tea?" Peter asked the
Duchessa.

So she poured the tea, and Peter passed it. As he stood close
to her, to take it--oh, but his heart beat, believe me! And
once, when she was giving him a cup, the warm tips of her
fingers lightly touched his hand. Believe me, the touch had
its effect. And always there was that heady fragrance in the
air, like a mysterious little voice, singing secrets.

"I wonder," the old priest said, "why tea is not more generally
drunk by us Italians. I never taste it without resolving to
acquire the habit. I remember, when I was a child, our mothers
used to keep it as a medicine; and you could only buy it at the