Up at the castle, in her rose-and-white boudoir, Beatrice was writing a letter to a friend in England.

“Villa Floriano,” she wrote, among other words, “has been let to an Englishman—a youngish, presentable-looking creature, in a dinner jacket, with a tongue in his head, and an indulgent eye for Nature—named Peter Marchdale. Do you happen by any chance to know who he is, or anything about him?”