“Mille grazie, Eccellenze,” the boy said, with a final sweep of his tattered hat. He ran back to his sister; and next moment they were walking resolutely on, westward, “into the great red light.”
The Duchessa and Peter were silent for a while, looking after them.
They dwindled to dots in the distance, and then, where the road turned, disappeared.
At last the Duchessa spoke—but almost as if speaking to herself.
“There, Felix Wildmay, you writer of tales, is a subject made to your hand,” she said.
We may guess whether Peter was startled. Was it possible that she had found him out? A sound, confused, embarrassed, something composite, between an oh and ayes, seemed to expire in his throat.
But the Duchessa did n't appear to heed it.
“Don't you think it would be a touching episode for your friend to write a story round?” she asked.
We may guess whether he was relieved.
“Oh—oh, yes,” he agreed, with the precipitancy of a man who, in his relief, would agree to anything.