“There is a Peter Marchdale--I don't know whether he will be your Peter Marchdale or not, my dear; though the name seems hardly likely to be common--son of the late Mr. Archibald Marchdale, Q. C., and nephew of old General Marchdale, of Whitstoke. A highly respectable and stodgy Norfolk family. I've never happened to meet the man myself, but I'm told he's a bit of an eccentric, who amuses himself globe-trotting, and writing books (novels, I believe) which nobody, so far as I am aware, ever reads. He writes under a pseudonym, Felix--I 'm not sure whether it's Mildmay or Wildmay. He began life, by the bye, in the Diplomatic, and was attache for a while at Berlin, or Petersburg, or somewhere; but whether (in the elegant language of Diplomacy) he 'chucked it up,' or failed to pass his exams, I'm not in a position to say. He will be near thirty, and ought to have a couple of thousand a year--more or less. His father, at any rate, was a great man at the bar, and must have left something decent. And the only other thing in the world I know about him is that he's a great friend of that clever gossip Margaret Winchfield--which goes to show that however obscure he may be as a scribbler of fiction, he must possess some redeeming virtues as a social being--for Mrs. Winchfield is by no means the sort that falls in love with bores. As you 're not, either--well, verbum sap., as my little brother Freddie says.” Beatrice gazed off, over the sunny lawn, with its trees and their long shadows, with its shrubberies, its bright flower-beds, its marble benches, its artificial ruin; over the lake, with its coloured sails, its incongruous puffing steamboats; down the valley, away to the rosy peaks of Monte Sfiorito, and the deep blue sky behind them. She plucked a spray of jessamine, and brushed the cool white blossoms across her cheek, and inhaled their fairy fragrance. “An obscure scribbler of fiction,” she mused. “Ah, well, one is an obscure reader of fiction oneself. We must send to London for Mr. Felix Mildmay Wildmay's works.” VIII On Monday evening, at the end of dinner, as she set the fruit before him, “The Signorino will take coffee?” old Marietta asked. Peter frowned at the fruit, figs and peaches-- “Figs imperial purple, and blushing peaches”-- ranged alternately, with fine precision, in a circle, round a central heap of translucent yellow grapes. “Is this the produce of my own vine and fig-tree?” he demanded. “Yes, Signorino; and also peach-tree,” replied Marietta. “Peaches do not grow on fig-trees?” he enquired. “No, Signorino,” said Marietta. “Nor figs on thistles. I wonder why not,” said he. “It is n't Nature,” was Marietta's confident generalisation. “Marietta Cignolesi,” Peter pronounced severely, looking her hard in the eyes, “I am told you are a witch.” “No,” said Marietta, simply, without surprise, without emotion.