“Oh, a thousand years ago I was in the Diplomatic Service,” he explained. “It is one of the requirements.”
Emilia Manfredi lifted her big brown eyes, filled with girlish wonder, to his face, and exclaimed, “How extraordinary!”
“It is n't half so extraordinary as it would be if it were true, my dear,” said the Duchessa.
“Oh? Non e poi vero?” murmured Emilia, and her eyes darkened with disappointment.
Peter meanwhile was looking at the snuffbox, which the priest still held in his hand, and admiring its brave repousse work of leaves and flowers, and the escutcheon engraved on the lid. But what if he could have guessed the part he had passively played in obtaining it for its possessor—or the part that it was still to play in his own epopee? Mark again the predestination!
“The storm is passing,” said the priest.
“Worse luck!” thought Peter.
For indeed the rain and the wind were moderating, the thunder had rolled farther away, the sky was becoming lighter.
“But there's a mighty problem before us still,” said the Duchessa. “How are we to get to Ventirose? The roads will, be ankle-deep with mud.”
“If you wish to do me a very great kindness—” Peter began.