I
will never regret that, will we, Emilietta?" said the priest.

A lively colour had come into the Duchessa's cheeks; her eyes seemed
unusually bright. Her hair was in some disorder, drooping at the sides,
and blown over her brow in fine free wavelets. It was dark in the
kitchen, save for the firelight, which danced fantastically on the walls
and ceiling, and struck a ruddy glow from Marietta's copper pots and
pans. The rain pattered lustily without; the wind wailed in the chimney;
the lightning flashed, the thunder volleyed. And Peter looked at the
Duchessa--and blessed the elements. To see her seated there, in her wet
gown, seated familiarly, at her ease, before his fire, in his kitchen,
with that colour in her cheeks, that brightness in her eyes, and her
hair in that disarray--it was unspeakable; his heart closed in a kind
of delicious spasm. And the fragrance, subtle, secret, evasive, that
hovered in the air near her, did not diminish his emotion.

"I wonder," she asked, with a comical little glance upwards at
him, "whether you would resent it very much if I should take off my
hat--because it's a perfect reservoir, and the water will keep trickling
down my neck."

His joy needed but this culmination that she should take off her hat!

"Oh, I beg of you--" he returned fervently.

"You had better take yours off too, Emilia," said the Duchessa.

"Admire masculine foresight," said the priest. "I took mine off when I
came in."

"Let me hang them up," said Peter.

It was wonderful to hold her hat in his hand--it was like holding a part
of herself. He brushed it surreptitiously against his face, as he
hung it up. Its fragrance--which met him like an answering caress,
almost--did not lessen his emotion.

Then Marietta brought the tea, with bread-and-butter, and toast, and
cakes, and pretty blue china cups and saucers, and silver that glittered
in the firelight.

"Will you do me the honour of pouring the tea?" Peter asked the
Duchessa.

So she poured the tea, and Peter passed it. As he stood close to her,
to take it--oh, but his heart beat, believe me! And once, when she was
giving him a cup, the warm tips of her fingers lightly touched his hand.
Believe me, the touch had its effect. And always there was that heady
fragrance in the air, like a mysterious little voice, singing secrets.

"I wonder," the old priest said, "why tea is not more generally drunk by
us Italians. I never taste it without resolving to ac