--there was the briefest suspension--"I am your landlady."

For a third time Peter bowed, a rather more elaborate bow than
his earlier ones, a bow of respectful enlightenment, of feudal
homage.

"You arrived this afternoon?" she conjectured.

"By the five-twenty-five from Bergamo," said he.

"A very convenient train," she remarked; and then, in the
pleasantest manner, whereby the unusual mode of valediction was
carried off, "Good evening."

"Good evening," responded Peter, and accomplished his fourth
bow.

She moved away from the river, up the smooth lawns, between the
trees, towards Castel Ventirose, a flitting whiteness amid the
surrounding green.

Peter stood still, looking after her.

But when she was out of sight, he sank back upon his rustic
bench, like a man exhausted, and breathed a prodigious sigh.
He was absurdly pale. All the same, clenching his fists, and
softly pounding the table with them, he muttered exultantly,
between his teeth, "What luck! What incredible luck! It's
she--it's she, as I 'm a heathen. Oh, what supernatural luck!"