tell--that is the
question.

'A face to lose youth for, to occupy age
With the dream of, meet death with--

And yet, if you can believe me, the man who penned those lines had never
seen her. He penned another line equally pat to the situation, though he
had never seen me, either

'Is there no method to tell her in Spanish?"

But you can't imagine how I detest that vulgar use of 'pen' for
'write'--as if literature were a kind of pig. However, it's perhaps
no worse than the use of Asti for champagne. One should n't be too
fastidious. I must really try to think of some method of telling her in
Spanish."

Marietta went to fetch the Asti.

XXIII

When Peter rose next morning, he pulled a grimace at the departed night.

"You are a detected cheat," he cried, "an unmasked impostor. You live
upon your reputation as a counsellor--'tis the only reason why we bear
with you. La nuit porte conseil! Yet what counsel have you brought to
me?--and I at the pass where my need is uttermost. Shall I go to her
this afternoon, and unburden my soul--or shall I not? You have left
me where you found me--in the same fine, free, and liberal state of
vacillation. Discredited oracle!"

He was standing before his dressing-table, brushing his hair. The image
in the glass frowned back at him. Then something struck him.

"At all events, we'll go this morning to Spiaggia, and have our hair
cut," he resolved.

So he walked to the village, and caught the ten o'clock omnibus for
Spiaggia. And after he had had his hair cut, he went to the Hotel de
Russie, and lunched in the garden. And after luncheon, of course, he
entered the grounds of the Casino, and strolled backwards and forwards,
one of a merry procession, on the terrace by the lakeside. The gay
toilets of the women, their bright-coloured hats and sunshades, made
the terrace look like a great bank of monstrous moving flowers. The band
played brisk accompaniments to the steady babble of voices, Italian,
English, German. The pure air was shot with alien scents--the women's
perfumery, the men's cigarette-smoke. The marvellous blue waters crisped
in the breeze, and sparkled in the sun; and the smooth snows of Monte
Sfiorito loomed so near, one felt one could almost put out one's stick
and scratch one's name upon them.... And here, as luck would have it,
Peter came face to face with Mrs. O'Donovan Florence.

"How do you do?" said she, offering her