“Apropos of art—” said the Duchessa.
She came down two or three steps nearer to the brink of the river. She produced from behind her back a hand that she had kept there, and held up for Peter's inspection a grey-and-gold bound book.
“Apropos of art, I've been reading a novel. Do you know it?”
Peter glanced at the grey-and-gold binding—and dissembled the emotion that suddenly swelled big in his heart.
He screwed his eyeglass into his eye, and gave an intent look.
“I can't make out the title,” he temporised, shaking his head, and letting his eyeglass drop.
On the whole, it was very well acted; and I hope the occult little smile that played about the Duchessa's lips was a smile of appreciation.
“It has a highly appropriate title,” she said. “It is called 'A Man of Words,' by an author I've never happened to hear of before, named Felix Wildmay.”
“Oh, yes. How very odd,” said Peter. “By a curious chance, I know it very well. But I 'm surprised to discover that you do. How on earth did it fall into your hands?”
“Why on earth shouldn't it?” wondered she. “Novels are intended to fall into people's hands, are they not?”