sum-total of her graces. "My uncle and my niece have gone to
the village. But I 'm expecting them to come home at any
moment now--and you'll not have long, I hope, to wait for your
snuff."

She flashed a whimsical little smile into his eyes. Then she
returned to her wicker chair, glancing an invitation at Peter
to place himself in the one facing her. She leaned back,
resting her head on a pink silk cushion.

Peter, no doubt, sent up a silent prayer that her uncle and her
niece might be detained at the village for the rest of the
afternoon. By her niece he took her to mean Emilia: he liked
her for the kindly euphemism. "What hair she has!" he thought,
admiring the loose brown masses, warm upon their background of
pink silk.

"Oh, I'm inured to waiting," he replied, with a retrospective
mind for the interminable waits of that interminable day.

The Duchessa had taken a fan from the table, and was playing
with it, opening and shutting it slowly, in her lap. Now she
caught Peter's eyes examining it, and she gave it to him. (My
own suspicion is that Peter's eyes had been occupied rather
with the hands that held the fan, than with the fan itself--but
that's a detail.)

"I picked it up the other day, in Rome," she said. "Of course,
it's an imitation of the French fans of the last century, but I
thought it pretty."