Well, to be sure, the text had cryptic subintentions; but these were as far as may be from any that Peter was in a position to conjecture.  How could he guess, for instance, that the letter was an instrument, and he the victim, of a Popish machination?  How could he guess that its writer knew as well as he did who was the author of “A Man of Words”?

And then, all at once, a shade of trouble of quite another nature fell upon his mind.  He frowned for a while in silent perplexity.  At last he addressed himself to Marietta.

“Have you ever dined with a cardinal?” he asked.

“No, Signorino,” that patient sufferer replied.

“Well, I’m in the very dickens of a quandary—­son’ proprio nel dickens d’un imbarazzo.” he informed her.

“Dickens—?” she repeated.

“Si—­Dickens, Carlo, celebre autore inglese.  Why not?” he asked.

Marietta gazed with long-suffering eyes at the horizon.

“Or, to put it differently,” Peter resumed, “I’ve come all the way from London with nothing better than a dinner jacket in my kit.”

“Dina giacca?  Cosa e?” questioned Marietta.

“No matter what it is—­the important thing is what it is n’t.  It is n’t a dress-coat.”

“Non e un abito nero,” said Marietta, seeing that he expected her to say something.

“Well—?  You perceive my difficulty.  Do you think you could make me one?” said Peter.

“Make the Signorino a dress-coat?  I?  Oh, no, Signorino.”  Marietta shook her head.

“I feared as much,” he acknowledged.  “Is there a decent tailor in the village?”

“No, Signorino.”

“Nor in the whole length and breadth of this peninsula, if you come to that.  Well, what am I to do?  How am I to dine with a cardinal?  Do you think a cardinal would have a fit if a man were to dine with him in a dina giacca?”

“Have a fit?  Why should he have a fit, Signorino?” Marietta blinked.

“Would he do anything to the man?  Would he launch the awful curses of the Church at him, for instance?”

“Mache, Signorino!” She struck an attitude that put to scorn his apprehensions.

“I see,” said Peter.  “You think there is no danger?  You advise me to brazen the dina giacca out, to swagger it off?”

“I don’t understand, Signorino,” said Marietta.

“To understand is to forgive,” said he; “and yet you can’t trifle with English servants like this, though they ought to understand, ought n’t they?  In any case, I ’ll be guided by your judgment.  I’ll wear my dina giacca, but I’ll wear it with an air!  I ’ll confer upon it the dignity of a court-suit.  Is that a gardener—­that person working over there?”

Marietta looked in the quarter indicated by Peter’s nod.

“Yes, Signorino; ha is the same gardener who works here three days every week,” she answered.

“Is he, really?  He looks like a pirate,” Peter murmured.