"Surely," Peter answered, "the lady paramount of this demesne?"

"No, no." She shook her head, smiling. "Undine. They are
Undine's--her necklaces and tiaras. No mortal woman's
jewel-case contains anything half so brilliant. But look at
them--look at the long chains of them--how they float for a
minute--and are then drawn down. They are Undine's--Undine
and her companions are sporting with them just below the
surface. A moment ago I caught a glimpse of a white arm."

"Ah," said Peter, nodding thoughtfully, "that's what it is to
have 'the seeing eye.' But I'm grieved to hear of Undine in
such a wanton mood. I had hoped she would still be weeping her
unhappy love-affair."

"What! with that horrid, stolid German--Hildebrandt, was his
name?" cried the Duchessa. "Not she! Long ago, I'm glad to
say, she learned to laugh at that, as a mere caprice of her
immaturity. However, this is a digression. I want to return
to our 'Man of Words.' Tell me--what is the quality you
especially like in it?"

"I like its every quality," Peter affirmed, unblushing. "Its
style, its finish, its concentration; its wit, humour,
sentiment; its texture, tone, atmosphere; its scenes, its
subject; the paper it's printed on, the type, the binding. But
above all, I like its heroine. I think Pauline de Fleuvieres
the pearl of human women--the cleverest, the loveliest, the
most desirable, the most exasperating. And also the most
feminine. I can't think of her at all as a mere fiction, a