"It is not, then, too spectacular, too violent?" she wondered,
returning her gaze to Peter, with an air of polite readiness to
defer to his opinion. "Not too much like a decor de theatre?"

"One should judge it," his automatic second-self submitted,
"with some leniency. It is, after all, only unaided Nature."

A spark flickered in her eyes, while she appeared to ponder.
(But I am not sure whether she was pondering the speech or its
speaker.)

"Really?" she said, in the end. "Did did Nature build the
villas, and plant the cornfields?"

But his automatic second-self was on its mettle.

"Yes," it asserted boldly; "the kind of men who build villas
and plant cornfields must be classified as natural forces."

She gave a light little laugh--and again appeared to ponder for
a moment.

Then, with another gracious inclination of the head, and an
interrogative brightening of the eyes, "Mr. Marchdale no
doubt?" she hazarded.

Peter bowed.

"I am very glad if, on the whole, you like our little effect,"
she went on, glancing in the direction of Monte Sfiorito. "I"