"What a woman it is," said Peter to himself, looking after her.
"What vigour, what verve, what sex! What a woman!"

And, indeed, there was nothing of the too-prevalent epicene in
the Duchessa's aspect; she was very certainly a woman.
"Heavens, how she walks!" he cried in a deep whisper.

But then a sudden wave of dejection swept over him. At first
he could not account for it. By and by, however, a malicious
little voice began to repeat and repeat within him, "Oh, the
futile impression you must have made upon her! Oh, the
ineptitudes you
uttered! Oh, the precious opportunity you have misemployed!"

"You are a witch," he said to Marietta. "You've proved it to
the hilt. I 've seen the person, and the object is more
desperately lost than ever."




X


That evening, among the letters Peter received from England,
there was one from his friend Mrs. Winchfield, which contained
certain statistics.

"Your Duchessa di Santangiolo 'was' indeed, as your funny old
servant told you, English: the only child and heiress of the