Marietta exchanged a glance with heaven.

“The Signorino’s landlady is the Duchessa di Santangiolo,” she answered, in accents of resignation.

But then the name seemed to stimulate her; and she went on “She lives there—­at Castel Ventirose.”  Marietta pointed towards the castle.  “She owns all, all this country, all these houses —­all, all.”  Marietta joined her brown old hands together, and separated them, like a swimmer, in a gesture that swept the horizon.  Her eyes snapped.

“All Lombardy?” said Peter, without emotion.

Marietta stared again.

“All Lombardy?  Mache!” was her scornful remonstrance.  “Nobody owns all Lombardy.  All these lands, these houses.”

“Who is she?” Peter asked.

Marietta’s eyes blinked, in stupefaction before such stupidity.

“But I have just told you,” she cried “She is the Duchessa di Santangiolo.”

“Who is the Duchessa di Santangiolo?” he asked.

Marietta, blinking harder, shrugged her shoulders.

“But”—­she raised her voice, screamed almost, as to one deaf —­“but the Duchessa di Santangiolo is the Signorino’s landlady la, proprietaria di tutte queste terre, tutte queste case, tutte, tutte.”

And she twice, with some violence, reacted her comprehensive gesture, like a swimmer’s.

“You evade me by a vicious circle,” Peter murmured.

Marietta made a mighty effort-brought all her faculties to a focus—­studied Peter’s countenance intently.  Her own was suddenly illumined.

“Ah, I understand,” she proclaimed, vigorously nodding.  “The Signorino desires to know who she is personally!”

“I express myself in obscure paraphrases,” said he; “but you, with your unfailing Italian simpatia, have divined the exact shade of my intention.”

“She is the widow of the Duca di Santangiolo,” said Marietta.

“Enfin vous entrez dans la voie des aveux,” said Peter.

“Scusi?” said Marietta.

“I am glad to hear she’s a widow,” said he.  “She—­she might strike a casual observer as somewhat young, for a widow.”

“She is not very old,” agreed Marietta; “only twenty-six, twenty-seven.  She was married from the convent.  That was eight, nine years ago.  The Duca has been dead five or six.”

“And was he also young and lovely?”

Peter asked.

“Young and lovely!  Mache!” derided Marietta.  “He was past forty.  He was fat.  But he was a good man.”

“So much the better for him now,” said Peter.

“Gia,” approved Marietta, and solemnly made the Sign of the Cross.

“But will you have the kindness to explain to me,” the young man continued, “how it happens that the Duchessa di Santangiolo speaks English as well as I do?”

The old woman frowned surprise.

“Come?  She speaks English?”

“For all the world like an Englishman,” asseverated Peter.