for a long while.

"The daughter of a lord, and the widow of a duke, and the
niece-in-law of a cardinal," he said. "And, as if that were
not enough, a bigoted Roman Catholic into the bargain . . . .
And yet--and yet," he went on, taking heart a little, "as for
her bigotry, to judge by her assiduity in attending the village
church, that factor, at least, thank goodness, would appear to
be static, rather than dynamic."

After another longish interval of brooding, he sauntered down
to the riverside, through his fragrant garden, fragrant and
fresh with the cool odours of the night, and peered into the
darkness, towards Castel Ventirose. Here and there he could
discern a gleam of yellow, where some lighted window was not
entirely hidden by the trees. Thousands and thousands of
insects were threading the silence with their shrill insistent
voices. The repeated wail, harsh, prolonged, eerie, of some
strange wild creature, bird or beast, came down from the forest
of the Gnisi. At his feet, on the troubled surface of the Aco,
the stars, reflected and distorted, shone like broken
spearheads.

He lighted a cigarette, and stood there till he had consumed
it.

"Heigh-ho!" he sighed at last, and turned back towards the
villa. And "Yes," he concluded, "I must certainly keep an eye
on our friend Peter Marchdale."