The voice was a woman’s.  It was clear and smooth; it was crisp-cut, distinguished.

Peter glanced about him.

On the opposite bank of the Aco, in the grounds of Ventirose, five or six yards away, a lady was standing, looking at him, smiling.

Peter’s eyes met hers, took in her face . . . .  And suddenly his heart gave a jump.  Then it stopped dead still, tingling, for a second.  Then it flew off, racing perilously.—­Oh, for reasons—­for the best reasons in the world:  but thereby hangs my tale.

She was a young woman, tall, slender, in a white frock, with a white cloak, an indescribable complexity of soft lace and airy ruffles, round her shoulders.  She wore no hat.  Her hair, brown and warm in shadow, sparkled, where it caught the light, in a kind of crinkly iridescence, like threads of glass.

Peter’s heart (for the best reasons in the world) was racing perilously.  “It’s impossible—­impossible—­impossible”—­the words strummed themselves to its rhythm.  Peter’s wits (for had not the impossible come to pass?) were in a perilous confusion.  But he managed to rise from his rustic bench, and to achieve a bow.

She inclined her head graciously.

“You do not think it altogether bad—­I hope?” she questioned, in her crisp-cut voice, raising her eyebrows slightly, with a droll little assumption of solicitude.

Peter’s wits were in confusion; but he must answer her.  An automatic second-self, summoned by the emergency, answered for him.

“I think one might safely call it altogether good.”

“Oh—?” she exclaimed.

Her eyebrows went up again, but now they expressed a certain whimsical surprise.  She threw back her head, and regarded the prospect critically.

“It is not, then, too spectacular, too violent?” she wondered, returning her gaze to Peter, with an air of polite readiness to defer to his opinion.  “Not too much like a decor de theatre?”

“One should judge it,” his automatic second-self submitted, “with some leniency.  It is, after all, only unaided Nature.”

A spark flickered in her eyes, while she appeared to ponder.  (But I am not sure whether she was pondering the speech or its speaker.)

“Really?” she said, in the end.  “Did did Nature build the villas, and plant the cornfields?”

But his automatic second-self was on its mettle.

“Yes,” it asserted boldly; “the kind of men who build villas and plant cornfields must be classified as natural forces.”

She gave a light little laugh—­and again appeared to ponder for a moment.

Then, with another gracious inclination of the head, and an interrogative brightening of the eyes, “Mr. Marchdale no doubt?” she hazarded.

Peter bowed.

“I am very glad if, on the whole, you like our little effect,” she went on, glancing in the direction of Monte Sfiorito.  “I” —­there was the briefest suspension—­“I am your landlady.”