Peter made a gesture of deprecating modesty.

"But I wonder," she went on, "whether you would put me down as
'another species of snatcher,' if I should ask you to spare me
just the merest end of a crust of bread?" And she lifted those
eyes rich in promise appealingly to his.

"Oh, I beg of you--take all I have," he responded, with
effusion. "But--but how--?"

"Toss," she commanded tersely.

So he tossed what was left of his bread into the air, above the
river; and the Duchessa, easily, deftly, threw up a hand, and
caught it on the wing.

"Thank you very much," she laughed, with a little bow.

Then she crumbled the bread, and began to sprinkle the ground
with it; and in an instant she was the centre of a cloud of
birds. Peter was at liberty to watch her, to admire the swift
grace of her motions, their suggestion of delicate strength, of
joy in things physical, and the lithe elasticity of her figure,
against the background of satiny lawn, and the further vistas
of lofty sunlit trees. She was dressed in white, as always--a
frock of I know not what supple fabric, that looked as if you
might have passed it through your ring, and fell in multitudes
of small soft creases. Two big red roses drooped from her
bodice. She wore a garden-hat, of white straw, with a big
daring rose-red bow, under which the dense meshes of her hair,