the tree-tops; here and there bird-notes fell, liquid,
desultory, like drops of rain after a shower; and constantly
one heard the cool music of the river. The sun, filtering
through worlds and worlds of leaves, shed upon everything a
green-gold penumbra. The air, warm and still, was sweet with
garden-scents. The lake, according to its habit at this hour
of the afternoon, had drawn a grey veil over its face, a thin
grey veil, through which its sapphire-blue shone furtively.
Far away, in the summer haze, Monte Sfiorito seemed a mere dim
spectre of itself--a stranger might easily have mistaken it for
a vague mass of cloud floating above the horizon.

"Are you aware that it 's a singularly lovely afternoon?" the
Duchessa asked, by and by.

"I have a hundred reasons for thinking it so," Peter hazarded,
with the least perceptible approach to a meaning bow.

In the Duchessa's face, perhaps, there flickered, for
half-a-second, the least perceptible light, as of a
comprehending and unresentful smile. But she went on,
with fine aloofness.

"I rather envy you your river, you know. We are too far from
it at the castle. Is n't the sound, the murmur, of it
delicious? And its colour--how does it come by such a subtle
colour? Is it green? Is it blue? And the diamonds on its
surface--see how they glitter. You know, of course," she
questioned, "who the owner is of those unequalled gems?"