In the bottom of the valley the lights were blue and purple and at the top these turned to green and yellow and a curious shade of red gold. It was exaggerated and, to Mr. Winnery's English eyes, a little overdone, like everything in Italy.
"What a marvelous place," murmured the Princess in a deep, throaty voice. "Why have I never seen it or heard of it?"
At that moment a servant brought tea, bad tea, of the kind bought in Italy in ancient tins, and biscuits, also out of tins, that were dry and hard.
"I have never placed much importance upon food," observed Mrs. Weatherby as she seated herself in an imitation Renaissance chair inlaid with mother-of-pearl. "I have lived for seventeen years on the spirit, ever since I lost Mr. Weatherby and discovered the consolations of religion." She turned suddenly and addressed her companion. "Will you pour, Gertrude?" And again to the Princess d'Orobelli, "Yes, it is a place rich in tradition and history, rich indeed." Again her words trailed off into space as if she found them poor, shabby things to express all the beauty of which she alone was conscious.
Winnery began to suspect that this transparent woman fancied herself as an enigma, a kind of Sibyl. Watching her, he began to suspect, too, that she was a very rich and a very mean woman, and that she sought to gloss over her meannesses by any motive at hand. She would have dragged in God Himself if necessary. He saw also that Father d'Astier and the Princess were profoundly bored and that upon both their faces had appeared that
