Peter climbed up to his observatory—­a square four-windowed turret, at the top of the house—­thence to watch the storm and exult in it.  Really it was splendid—­to see, to hear; its immense wild force, its immense reckless fury.  Rain had never rained so hard, he thought.  Already, the lake, the mountain slopes, the villas and vineyards westward, were totally blotted out, hidden behind walls and walls of water; and even the neighbouring lawns of Ventirose, the confines of his own garden, were barely distinguishable, blurred as by a fog.  The big drops pelted the river like bullets, sending up splashes bigger than themselves.  And the tiled roof just above his head resounded with a continual loud crepitation, as if a multitude of iron-shod elves were dancing on it.  The thunder crashed, roared, reverberated, like the toppling of great edifices.  The lightning tore through the black cloud-canopy in long blinding zig-zags.  The wind moaned, howled, hooted—­and the square chamber where Peter stood shook and rattled under its buffetings, and was full of the chill and the smell of it.  Really the whole thing was splendid.

His garden-paths ran with muddy brooklets; the high-road beyond his hedge was transformed to a shallow torrent . . . .  And, just at that moment, looking off along the highroad, he saw something that brought his heart into his throat.

Three figures were hurrying down it, half-drowned in the rain —­the Duchessa di Santangiolo, Emilia Manfredi, and a priest.

In a twinkling, Peter, bareheaded, was at his gate.

“Come in—­come in,” he called.

“We are simply drenched—­we shall inundate your house,” the Duchessa said, as he showed them into his sitting-room.

They were indeed dripping with water, soiled to their knees with mud.

“Good heavens!” gasped Peter, stupid.  “How were you ever out in such a downpour?”

She smiled, rather forlornly.

“No one told us that it was going to rain, and we were off for a good long walk—­for pleasure.”

“You must be wet to the bone—­you must be perishing with cold,” he cried, looking from one to another.

“Yes, I daresay we are perishing with cold,” she admitted.

“And I have no means of offering you a fire—­there are no fireplaces,” he groaned, with a gesture round the bleak Italian room, to certify their absence.

“Is n’t there a kitchen?” asked the Duchessa, a faint spark of raillery kindling amid the forlornness of her smile.

Peter threw up his hands.

“I had lost my head.  The kitchen, of course.  I ’ll tell Marietta to light a fire.”

He excused himself, and sought out Marietta.  He found her in her housekeeper’s room, on her knees, saying her rosary, in obvious terror.  I ’m afraid he interrupted her orisons somewhat brusquely.

“Will you be so good as to start a rousing fire in the kitchen —­as quickly as ever it can be done?”