“Good heavens!” gasped Peter, stupid. “How were you ever out in such a downpour?”
She smiled, rather forlornly.
“No one told us that it was going to rain, and we were off for a good long walk—for pleasure.”
“You must be wet to the bone—you must be perishing with cold,” he cried, looking from one to another.
“Yes, I daresay we are perishing with cold,” she admitted.
“And I have no means of offering you a fire—there are no fireplaces,” he groaned, with a gesture round the bleak Italian room, to certify their absence.
“Is n't there a kitchen?” asked the Duchessa, a faint spark of raillery kindling amid the forlornness of her smile.
Peter threw up his hands.
“I had lost my head. The kitchen, of course. I 'll tell Marietta to light a fire.”
He excused himself, and sought out Marietta. He found her in her housekeeper's room, on her knees, saying her rosary, in obvious terror. I 'm afraid he interrupted her orisons somewhat brusquely.