Dear Mr. Pegg indeed! And she had never met him before that evening! I determined to do something about this at once; though just what, and about what, I did not quite know at the moment, but you will understand me. Mr. Pegg, however, beamed at Abby, and then turned to the duke. "Neighbor of mine on the coast," he explained. "Nice feller, but knows nothing at all about citrus fruit." "But he does know about antiques," laughed the duke. "His collection is world-famous. Are you interested along those lines?" "More curious than anything," Mr. Pegg admitted. "You see, I don't intend to let any branch of knowledge go untouched if I can help it. That's one of the traits that makes us Americans so remarkable." "I see," replied Monteventi. "Have you shown him the Mantegna?" he went on, turning to Abby. "Mantegna!" I exclaimed; "A genuine Mantegna! How wonderful!" "Let's have a look!" said my employer. "It's in here!" assented our hostess, and led the way into a little alcove room, where upon the bare plaster wall the masterpiece hung--a strange, melancholy primitive of the ascension, the agony of the dark ages in its solemn coloring, and struggling for technic. I stood in silent awe,--it was such a precious thing to be in private ownership, and of all persons, in Abby's! I sighed and turned, to see a curious look upon the face of the young duke, who towered beside me. Never had I seen anything so amazing as the transformation which had taken place in him. There came into it a look of reverence mixed with a passionate fire which seemed almost for the moment to consume him. His face was that of a saint, a religious fanatic, a young crusader. His eyes burned and the color had receded from his cheeks. To say that I was shocked and fascinated at this transformation is to put it mildly. Then he caught my eyes and his color came back. "You understand pictures, Miss Talbot," he said quietly. "I remember." "Pretty homely, I call it," said Mr. Pegg's voice behind us. "But I suppose that makes it all the more valuable. How much do you calculate it is worth?" In an instant the duke had turned to him, his expression normal once more. "An Italian work of art of such a character as this is beyond price," he declared, a deep note in his voice; "though that little painting would easily fetch a hundred thousand dollars in the market--which it will never reach, thank God!" "You seem to think a lot of it," replied Mr. Pegg. "I wouldn't give five dollars for it, but I suppose some people would." "Markheim, for instance!" remarked the duke. "But he couldn't get it. One of our charming hostess' chief claims to distinction is that though an American by birth she has the Italian loyalty about such matters." He bowed charmingly.