But the Duchessa did not appear to notice it.

“Yes—­true—­so we do,” she assented vaguely.  “And what you tell me of the sparrows in the Hesperides is very novel and impressive—­unless, indeed, it is a mere traveller’s tale, with which you are seeking to practise upon my credulity.  But since I find you in this communicative vein, will you not push complaisance a half-inch further, and tell me what that thing is, suspended there in the sky above the crest of the Cornobastone—­that pale round thing, that looks like the spectre of a magnified half-crown?”

Peter turned to the quarter her gaze indicated.

“Oh, that,” he said, “is nothing.  In frankness, it is only what the vulgar style the moon.”

“How odd,” said she.  “I thought it was what the vulgar style the moon.”

And they both laughed again.

The Duchessa moved a little; and thus she uncovered, carved on the back of her marble bench, and blazoned in red and gold, a coat of arms.

She touched the shield with her finger.

“Are you interested in canting heraldry?” she asked.  “There is no country so rich in it as Italy.  These are the arms of the Farfalla, the original owners of this property.  Or, seme of twenty roses gules; the crest, on a rose gules, a butterfly or, with wings displayed; and the motto—­how could the heralds ever have sanctioned such an unheraldic and unheroic motto?

Rosa amorosa,
Farfalla giojosa,
Mi cantano al cuore
La gioja e l’ amore.

They were the great people of this region for countless generations, the Farfalla.  They were Princes of Ventirose and Patricians of Milan.  And then the last of them was ruined at Monte Carlo, and killed himself there, twenty-odd years ago.  That is how all their gioja and amore ended.  It was the case of a butterfly literally broken upon a wheel.  The estate fell into the hands of the Jews, as everything more or less does sooner or later; and they—­if you can believe me—­they were going to turn the castle into an hotel, into one of those monstrous modern hotels, for other Jews to come to, when I happened to hear of it, and bought it.  Fancy turning that splendid old castle into a Jew-infested hotel!  It is one of the few castles in Italy that have a ghost.  Oh, but a quite authentic ghost.  It is called the White Page—­il Paggio Bianco di Ventirose.  It is the ghost of a boy about sixteen.  He walks on the ramparts of the old keep, and looks off towards the lake, as if he were watching a boat, and sometimes he waves his arms, as if he were signalling.  And from head to foot he is perfectly white, like a statue.  I have never seen him myself; but so many people say they have, I cannot doubt he is authentic.  And the Jews wanted to turn this haunted castle into an hotel . . .  As a tribute to the memory of the Farfalla, I take pains to see that their arms, which are carved, as you see them here, in at least a hundred different places, are remetalled and retinctured as often as time and the weather render it necessary.”