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.

“I quite understand,” he genially persisted.  “It’s a part of the game to deny it.  But I have no intention of sprinkling you with holy water-so don’t be frightened.  Besides, if you should do anything outrageous—­if you should turn into a black cat, and fly away on a broomstick, for example—­I could never forgive myself.  But I’ll thank you to employ a little of your witchcraft on my behalf, all the same.  I have lost something —­something very precious—­more precious than rubies—­more precious than fine gold.”

Marietta’s brown old wrinkles fell into an expression of alarm.

“In the villa?  In the garden?” she exclaimed, anxiously.

“No, you conscientious old thing you,” Peter hastened to relieve her.  “Nowhere in your jurisdiction—­so don’t distress yourself:  Laggiu, laggiu.”

And he waved a vague hand, to indicate outer space.

The Signorino should put up a candle to St. Anthony of Padua,” counselled this Catholic witch.

“St. Anthony of Padua?  Why of Padua?” asked Peter.

“St. Anthony of Padua,” said Marietta.

“You mean of Lisbon,” corrected Peter.

“No,” insisted the old woman, with energy.  “St. Anthony of Padua.”

It But he was born in Lisbon;” insisted Peter.

“No,” said Marietta.

“Yes,” said he, “parola d’ onore.  And, what’s more to the purpose, he died in Lisbon.  You clearly mean St. Anthony of Lisbon.”