"Surely," Peter answered, "the lady paramount of this demesne?"
"No, no." She shook her head, smiling. "Undine. They are
Undine's--her necklaces and tiaras. No mortal woman's
jewel-case contains anything half so brilliant. But look at
them--look at the long chains of them--how they float for a
minute--and are then drawn down. They are Undine's--Undine
and her companions are sporting with them just below the
surface. A moment ago I caught a glimpse of a white arm."
"Ah," said Peter, nodding thoughtfully, "that's what it is to
have 'the seeing eye.' But I'm grieved to hear of Undine in
such a wanton mood. I had hoped she would still be weeping her
unhappy love-affair."
"What! with that horrid, stolid German--Hildebrandt, was his
name?" cried the Duchessa. "Not she! Long ago, I'm glad to
say, she learned to laugh at that, as a mere caprice of her
immaturity. However, this is a digression. I want to return
to our 'Man of Words.' Tell me--what is the quality you
especially like in it?"
"I like its every quality," Peter affirmed, unblushing. "Its
style, its finish, its concentration; its wit, humour,
sentiment; its texture, tone, atmosphere; its scenes, its
subject; the paper it's printed on, the type, the binding. But
above all, I like its heroine. I think Pauline de Fleuvieres
the pearl of human women--the cleverest, the loveliest, the
most desirable, the most exasperating. And also the most
feminine. I can't think of her at all as a mere fiction, a
mere shadow on paper. I think of her as a living, breathing,
flesh-and-blood woman, whom I have actually known. I can see
her before me now--I can see her eyes, full of mystery and
mischief--I can see her exquisite little teeth, as she smiles
--I can see her hair, her hands--I can almost catch the perfume
of her garments. I 'm utterly infatuated with her--I could
commit a hundred follies for her."
"Mercy!" exclaimed the Duchessa. "You are enthusiastic."
"The book's admirers are so few, they must endeavour to make up
in enthusiasm what they lack in numbers," he submitted.
"But--at that rate--why are they so few?" she puzzled. "If the
book is all you think it, how do you account for its
unpopularity?"
"It could never conceivably be anything but unpopular," said
he. "It has the fatal gift of beauty."
The Duchessa laughed surprise.
"Is beauty a fatal gift--in works of art?"