that it was her right to be told? That the matter affected her
in one way, as much as it affected him in another? That since
she had influenced--since she had contributed to--his life and
his art as she had, it was her right to know it? Couldn't he
see that his 'cheek,' his real 'cheek,' began when he withheld
from her that great strange chapter of her own history? Oh, he
ought to have told her, he ought to have told her."

She sank back in her chair, giving her head another rueful
shake, and gazed ruefully away, over the sunny landscape,
through the mellow atmosphere, into the golden-hazy distance.

Peter looked at her--and then, quickly, for caution's sake,
looked elsewhere.

"But there were other things to be taken into account," he
said.

The Duchessa raised her eyes. "What other things?" they
gravely questioned.

"Would n't his telling her have been equivalent to a
declaration of love?" questioned he, looking at the signet-ring
on the little finger of his left hand.

"A declaration of love?" She considered for a moment. "Yes, I
suppose in a way it would," she acknowledged. "But even so?"
she asked, after another moment of consideration. "Why should
he not have made her a declaration of love? He was in love
with her, wasn't he?"