At first she had seen a few English people, for Monteriano was not the end of the earth.  One or two inquisitive ladies, who had heard at home of her quarrel with the Herritons, came to call.  She was very sprightly, and they thought her quite unconventional, and Gino a charming boy, so all that was to the good.  But by May the season, such as it was, had finished, and there would be no one till next spring.  As Mrs. Herriton had often observed, Lilia had no resources.  She did not like music, or reading, or work.  Her one qualification for life was rather blowsy high spirits, which turned querulous or boisterous according to circumstances.  She was not obedient, but she was cowardly, and in the most gentle way, which Mrs. Herriton might have envied, Gino made her do what he wanted.  At first it had been rather fun to let him get the upper hand.  But it was galling to discover that he could not do otherwise.  He had a good strong will when he chose to use it, and would not have had the least scruple in using bolts and locks to put it into effect.  There was plenty of brutality deep down in him, and one day Lilia nearly touched it.

It was the old question of going out alone.

“I always do it in England.”

“This is Italy.”

“Yes, but I’m older than you, and I’ll settle.”

“I am your husband,” he said, smiling.  They had finished their mid-day meal, and he wanted to go and sleep.  Nothing would rouse him up, until at last Lilia, getting more and more angry, said, “And I’ve got the money.”

He looked horrified.

Now was the moment to assert herself.  She made the statement again.  He got up from his chair.

“And you’d better mend your manners,” she continued, “for you’d find it awkward if I stopped drawing cheques.”

She was no reader of character, but she quickly became alarmed.  As she said to Perfetta afterwards, “None of his clothes seemed to fit—­too big in one place, too small in another.”  His figure rather than his face altered, the shoulders falling forward till his coat wrinkled across the back and pulled away from his wrists.  He seemed all arms.  He edged round the table to where she was sitting, and she sprang away and held the chair between them, too frightened to speak or to move.  He looked at her with round, expressionless eyes, and slowly stretched out his left hand.

Perfetta was heard coming up from the kitchen.  It seemed to wake him up, and he turned away and went to his room without a word.

“What has happened?” cried Lilia, nearly fainting.  “He is ill—­ill.”

Perfetta looked suspicious when she heard the account.  “What did you say to him?” She crossed herself.

“Hardly anything,” said Lilia and crossed herself also.  Thus did the two women pay homage to their outraged male.