her.  Bitterly she regrets her choice.  She has discovered the drawbacks of a promontory.  My dear Duchess, never live on a promontory!  It has fearful inconveniences; you are overlooked by everybody.  All the islands know what you do, and who visits you, and when, and why. . . .  Yes, I remember those dinners with regret.  Nowadays I must content myself with a miserable supper at home.  The doctor has forbidden dinners.  He says I am getting too fat.”

Denis remarked: 

“Your fat is your fortune, Don Francesco.”

“My fortune, then, is a heavy load to bear.  Mr. Keith tells me I have seven double chins, three behind and four in front.  He says he has counted them carefully.  He declares that an eighth is in course of formation.  It is too much for a person of my austere temperament.”

“You need never believe a word Keith says,” said the Duchess.  “He upsets me with his long words and his—­his awful views.  He really does.”

“I tell him he is the Antichrist,” observed Don Francesco, gravely shaking his head.  “But we shall see!  We shall catch him yet.”

The Duchess had no idea what the Antichrist was, but she felt sure it was something not quite nice.

“If I thought he was anything like that, I would never ask him to my house again.  The Antichrist!  Ah, talk of angels—­”

The person in question suddenly appeared, superintending half a dozen young gardeners who carried various consignments of plants wrapped up in straw which had arrived, presumably, by the steamer.

Mr. Keith was older than he looked—­incredibly old, in fact, though nobody could bring himself to believe it; he was well preserved by means of a complicated system of life, the details of which, he used to declare, were not fit for publication.  That was only his way of talking.  He exaggerated so dreadfully.  His face was clean-shaven, rosy, and of cherubic fulness; his eyes beamed owlishly through spectacles which nobody had ever seen him take off.  But for those spectacles he might have passed for a well-groomed baby in a soap-advertisement.  He was supposed to sleep in them.

It looked as if Mr. Keith had taken an instantaneous liking to the bishop.

“Bampopo?  Why, of course.  I’ve been there.  Years and years ago.  Long before your time, I’m afraid.  How is the place getting on?  Better roads, no doubt.  And better food, I hope?  I was much interested in that little lake—­you know?  It seemed to have no outlet.  We must talk it over.  And I like those Bulanga people—­fine fellows!  You liked them too?  I’m glad to hear it.  Such a lot of nonsense was talked about their depravity!  If you have nothing better to do, come and lunch to-morrow, can you?  Villa Khismet.  Anybody will show you the way.  You, Denis,” he added, “you disappoint me.  You look like a boy who is fond of flowers.  And yet you have never been to see my cannas, which are the finest in the kingdom, to say nothing of myself, who am also something of a flower.  A carnivorous orchid, I fancy.”