"Surely," Peter answered, "the lady paramount of this demesne?"

"No, no." She shook her head, smiling. "Undine. They are

Undine's--her necklaces and tiaras. No mortal woman's

jewel-case contains anything half so brilliant. But look at

them--look at the long chains of them--how they float for a

minute--and are then drawn down. They are Undine's--Undine

and her companions are sporting with them just below the

surface. A moment ago I caught a glimpse of a white arm."

"Ah," said Peter, nodding thoughtfully, "that's what it is to

have 'the seeing eye.' But I'm grieved to hear of Undine in

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such a wanton mood. I had hoped she would still be weeping her

unhappy love-affair."

"What! with that horrid, stolid German--Hildebrandt, was his

name?" cried the Duchessa. "Not she! Long ago, I'm glad to

say, she learned to laugh at that, as a mere caprice of her

immaturity. However, this is a digression. I want to return

to our 'Man of Words.' Tell me--what is the quality you

especially like in it?"

"I like its every quality," Peter affirmed, unblushing. "Its

style, its finish, its concentration; its wit, humour,

sentiment; its texture, tone, atmosphere; its scenes, its

subject; the paper it's printed on, the type, the binding. But

above all, I like its heroine. I think Pauline de Fleuvieres

the pearl of human women--the cleverest, the loveliest, the

most desirable, the most exasperating. And also the most

feminine. I can't think of her at all as a mere fiction, a

mere shadow on paper. I think of her as a living, breathing,

flesh-and-blood woman, whom I have actually known. I can see

her before me now--I can see her eyes, full of mystery and

mischief--I can see her exquisite little teeth, as she smiles

--I can see her hair, her hands--I can almost catch the perfume

of her garments. I 'm utterly infatuated with her--I could

commit a hundred follies for her."

"Mercy!" exclaimed the Duchessa. "You are enthusiastic."

"The book's admirers are so few, they must endeavour to make up

in enthusiasm what they lack in numbers," he submitted.

"But--at that rate--why are they so few?" she puzzled. "If the

book is all you think it, how do you account for its

unpopularity?"

"It could never conceivably be anything but unpopular," said

he. "It has the fatal gift of beauty."

The Duchessa laughed surprise.

"Is beauty a fatal gift--in works of art?"




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