“That should give an edge to its aroma,” laughed she. “And besides, the Whites aren't all responsible for our spoliation--some of them are not so white as your fancy paints them. They'd be very decent people, for the most part--if they were n't so vulgar.” “If you stick up for the Whites like that when I am Pope, I shall excommunicate you,” the priest threatened. “Meanwhile, what have you to say against the Blacks?” “The Blacks, with few exceptions, are even blacker than they're painted; but they too would be fairly decent people in their way--if they were n't so respectable. That is what makes Rome impossible as a residence for any one who cares for human society. White society is so vulgar--Black society is so deadly dull.” “It is rather curious,” said the priest, “that the chief of each party should wear the colour of his adversary. Our chief dresses in white, and their chief can be seen any day driving about the streets in black.” And Peter, during this interchange of small-talk, was at liberty to feast his eyes upon her. “Perhaps you have not yet reached the time of life where men begin to find a virtue in snuff?” the priest said, producing a smart silver snuff box, tapping the lid, and proffering it to Peter. “On the contrary--thank you,” Peter answered, and absorbed his pinch like an adept. “How on earth have you learned to take it without a paroxysm?” cried the surprised Duchessa. “Oh, a thousand years ago I was in the Diplomatic Service,” he explained. “It is one of the requirements.” Emilia Manfredi lifted her big brown eyes, filled with girlish wonder, to his face, and exclaimed, “How extraordinary!” “It is n't half so extraordinary as it would be if it were true, my dear,” said the Duchessa. “Oh? Non e poi vero?” murmured Emilia, and her eyes darkened with disappointment. Peter meanwhile was looking at the snuffbox, which the priest still held in his hand, and admiring its brave repousse work of leaves and flowers, and the escutcheon engraved on the lid. But what if he could have guessed the part he had passively played in obtaining it for its possessor--or the part that it was still to play in his own epopee? Mark again the predestination! “The storm is passing,” said the priest. “Worse luck!” thought Peter. For indeed the rain and the wind were moderating, the thunder had rolled farther away, the sky was becoming lighter. “But there's a mighty problem before us still,” said the Duchessa. “How are we to get to Ventirose? The roads will, be ankle-deep with mud.” “If you wish to do me a very great kindness--” Peter began. “Yes--?” she encouraged him. “You will allow me to go before you, and tell them to come for you with a carriage.” “I shall certainly allow you to do nothing of the sort,” she replied severely. “I suppose there is no one whom you could send?” “I should hardly like to send Marietta. I 'm afraid there is no one else. But upon my word, I should enjoy going myself.”