So he turned his back upon Villa F’loriano, and. set off, high-hearted, up the wide lawns, under the bending trees —­whither, on four red-marked occasions, he had watched her disappear—­towards the castle, which faced him in its vast irregular picturesqueness.  There were the oldest portions, grimly mediaeval, a lakeside fortress, with ponderous round towers, meurtrieres, machiolations, its grey stone walls discoloured in fantastic streaks and patches by weather-stains and lichens, or else shaggily overgrown by creepers.  Then there were later portions, rectangular, pink-stuccoed, with rusticated work at the corners, and, on the blank spaces between the windows, quaint allegorical frescoes, faded, half washed-out.  And then there were entirely modern-looking portions, of gleaming marble, with numberless fanciful carvings, spires, pinnacles, reliefs—­wonderfully light, gay, habitable, and (Peter thought) beautiful, in the clear Italian atmosphere, against the blue Italian sky.

“It’s a perfect house for her,” he said.  “It suits her—­like an appropriate garment; it almost seems to express her.”

And all the while, as he proceeded, her voice kept sounding in his ears; scraps of her conversation, phrases that she had spoken, kept coming back to him.

One end of the long, wide marble terrace had been arranged as a sort of out-of-door living-room.  A white awning was stretched overhead; warm-hued rugs were laid on the pavement; there were wicker lounging-chairs, with bright cushions, and a little table, holding books and things.

The Duchessa rose from one of the lounging-chairs, and came forward, smiling, to meet him.

She gave him her hand—­for the first time.

It was warm—­electrically warm; and it was soft—­womanly soft; and it was firm, alive—­it spoke of a vitality, a temperament.  Peter was sure, besides, that it would be sweet to smell; and he longed to bend over it, and press it with his lips.  He might almost have done so, according to Italian etiquette.  But, of course, he simply bowed over it, and let it go.

“Mi trova abbandonata,” she said, leading the way back to the terrace-end.  There were notes of a peculiar richness in her voice, when she spoke Italian; and she dwelt languorously on the vowels, and rather slurred the consonants, lazily, in the manner Italian women have, whereby they give the quality of velvet to their tongue.  She was not an Italian woman; Heaven be praised, she was English:  so this was just pure gain to the sum-total of her graces.  “My uncle and my niece have gone to the village.  But I ’m expecting them to come home at any moment now—­and you’ll not have long, I hope, to wait for your snuff.”

She flashed a whimsical little smile into his eyes.  Then she returned to her wicker chair, glancing an invitation at Peter to place himself in the one facing her.  She leaned back, resting her head on a pink silk cushion.