turned, disappeared.

At last the Duchessa spoke--but almost as if speaking to
herself.

"There, Felix Wildmay, you writer of tales, is a subject made
to your hand," she said.

We may guess whether Peter was startled. Was it possible that
she had found him out? A sound, confused, embarrassed,
something composite, between an oh and ayes, seemed to expire
in his throat.

But the Duchessa did n't appear to heed it.

"Don't you think it would be a touching episode for your friend
to write a story round?" she asked.

We may guess whether he was relieved.

"Oh--oh, yes," he agreed, with the precipitancy of a man who,
in his relief, would agree to anything.

"Have you ever seen such courage?" she went on. "The wonderful
babies! Fancy fifteen days, fifteen days and nights, alone,
unprotected, on the highway, those poor little atoms! Down in
their hearts they are really filled with terror. Who would n't
be, with such a journey before him? But how finely they
concealed it, mastered it! Oh, I hope they won't be robbed.
God help them--God help them!"