“She was born, as I learn from an indiscretion of my Peerage, in 1870, and is, therefore, as near to thirty (the dangerous age!) as to the six-and-twenty your droll old Marietta gives her.  Her Christian names are Beatrice Antonia Teresa Mary —­faites en votre choix.  She was married at nineteen to Baldassarre Agosto, Principe Udeschini, Duca di Santangiolo, Marchese di Castellofranco, Count of the Holy Roman Empire, Knight of the Holy Ghost and of St. Gregory, (does it take your breath away?), who, according to Frontin, died in ’93; and as there were no children, his brother Felipe Lorenzo succeeded to the titles.  A younger brother still is Bishop of Sardagna.  Cardinal Udeschini is the uncle.

“That, dear child, empties my sack of information.  But perhaps I have a bigger sack, full of good advice, which I have not yet opened.  And perhaps, on the whole, I will not open it at all.  Only, remember that in yonder sentimental Italian lake country, in this summer weather, a solitary young man’s fancy might be much inclined to turn to thoughts of—­folly; and keep an eye on my friend Peter Marchdale.”

Our solitary young man brooded over Mrs. Winchfield’s letter for a long while.

“The daughter of a lord, and the widow of a duke, and the niece-in-law of a cardinal,” he said.  “And, as if that were not enough, a bigoted Roman Catholic into the bargain . . . .  And yet—­and yet,” he went on, taking heart a little, “as for her bigotry, to judge by her assiduity in attending the village church, that factor, at least, thank goodness, would appear to be static, rather than dynamic.”

After another longish interval of brooding, he sauntered down to the riverside, through his fragrant garden, fragrant and fresh with the cool odours of the night, and peered into the darkness, towards Castel Ventirose.  Here and there he could discern a gleam of yellow, where some lighted window was not entirely hidden by the trees.  Thousands and thousands of insects were threading the silence with their shrill insistent voices.  The repeated wail, harsh, prolonged, eerie, of some strange wild creature, bird or beast, came down from the forest of the Gnisi.  At his feet, on the troubled surface of the Aco, the stars, reflected and distorted, shone like broken spearheads.

He lighted a cigarette, and stood there till he had consumed it.

“Heigh-ho!” he sighed at last, and turned back towards the villa.  And “Yes,” he concluded, “I must certainly keep an eye on our friend Peter Marchdale.”

“But I ’m doubting it’s a bit too late—­troppo tardo,” he said to Marietta, whom he found bringing hot water to his dressing-room.

“It is not very late,” said Marietta.  “Only half-past ten.”

“She is a woman—­therefore to be loved; she is a duchess —­therefore to be lost,” he explained, in his native tongue.

“Cosa.” questioned Marietta, in hers.

XI