She gave a light little laugh..
“I may also improve this occasion,” Peter abruptly continued, “to make my adieux. I shall be leaving for England in a few days now.”
The Duchessa raised her eyebrows.
“Really?” she said. “Oh, that is too bad,” she added, by way of comment. “October, you know, is regarded as the best month of all the twelve, in this lake country.”
“Yes, I know it,” Peter responded regretfully.
“And it is a horrid month in England,” she went on.
“It is an abominable month in England,” he acknowledged.
“Here it is blue, like larkspur, and all fragrant of the vintage, and joyous with the songs of the vintagers,” she said. “There it is dingy-brown, and songless, and it smells of smoke.”
“Yes,” he agreed.
“But you are a sportsman? You go in for shooting?” she conjectured.