But when he went to see her on the morrow, she was grazing peacefully; and she ate the salt he brought her with heart-whole bovine relish—­putting out her soft white pad of a tongue, licking it deliberately from his hand, savouring it tranquilly, and crunching the bigger grains with ruminative enjoyment between her teeth.  So soon consoled!  They were companions in misery no longer.  “I ’m afraid you are a Latin, after all,” he said, and left her with a sense of disappointment.

That afternoon Marietta asked, “Would you care to visit the castle, Signorino?”

He was seated under his willow-tree, by the river, smoking cigarettes—­burning superfluous time.

Marietta pointed towards Ventirose.

“Why?” said he.

“The family are away.  In the absence of the family, the public are admitted, upon presentation of their cards.”

“Oho!” he cried.  “So the family are away, are they?”

“Yes, Signorino.”

“Aha!” cried he.  “The family are away.  That explains everything.  Have—­have they been gone long?”

“Since a week, ten days, Signorino.”

“A week!  Ten days!” He started up, indignant.  “You secretive wretch!  Why have you never breathed a word of this to me?”

Marietta looked rather frightened.

“I did not know it myself, Signorino,” was her meek apology.  “I heard it in the village this morning, when the Signorino sent me to buy coarse salt.”

“Oh, I see.”  He sank back upon his rustic bench.  “You are forgiven.”  He extended his hand in sign of absolution.  “Are they ever coming back?”

“Naturally, Signorino.”

“What makes you think so?”

“But they will naturally come back.”

“I felicitate you upon your simple faith.  When?”

“Oh, fra poco.  They have gone to Rome.”

“To Rome?  You’re trifling with me.  People do not go to Rome in August.”

“Pardon, Signorino.  People go to Rome for the feast of the Assumption.  That is the 15th.  Afterwards they come back,” said Marietta, firmly.

“I withdraw my protest,” said Peter.  “They have gone to Rome for the feast of the Assumption.  Afterwards they will come back.”

“Precisely, Signorino.  But you have now the right to visit the castle, upon presentation of your card.  You address yourself to the porter at the lodge.  The castle is grand, magnificent.  The Court of Honour alone is thirty metres long.”

Marietta stretched her hands to right and left as far as they would go.

“Marietta,” Peter enquired solemnly, “are you familiar with the tragedy of ’Hamlet’?”

Marietta blinked.

“No, Signorino.”

“You have never read it,” he pursued, “in that famous edition from which the character of the Prince of Denmark happened to be omitted?”

Marietta shook her head, wearily, patiently.