Admirably philosophised,” he approved.  But it sometimes happens that men are neither young nor old.  There are men of thirty-five—­I have even heard that there are men of forty.  What of them?”

“There is a proverb, Signorino, which says, Sposi di quarant’ anni son mai sempre tiranni,” she informed him.

“For the matter of that,” he retorted, “there is a proverb which says, Love laughs at locksmiths.”

“Non capisco,” said Marietta.

“That’s merely because it’s English,” said he.  “You’d understand fast enough if I should put it in Italian.  But I only quoted it to show the futility of proverbs.  Laugh at locksmiths, indeed!  Why, it can’t even laugh at such an insignificant detail as a Papist’s prejudices.  But I wish I were a duke and a millionaire.  Do you know any one who could create me a duke and endow me with a million?”

“No, Signorino,” she answered, shaking her head.

“Fragrant Cytherea, foam-born Venus, deathless Aphrodite, cannot, goddess though she is,” he complained.  “The fact is, I ’m feeling rather undone.  I think I will ask you to bring me a bottle of Asti-spumante—­some of the dry kind, with the white seal.  I ’ll try to pretend that it’s champagne.  To tell or not to tell—­that is the question.

’A face to lose youth for, to occupy age
With the dream of, meet death with—­

And yet, if you can believe me, the man who penned those lines had never seen her.  He penned another line equally pat to the situation, though he had never seen me, either

’Is there no method to tell her in Spanish?”

But you can’t imagine how I detest that vulgar use of ‘pen’ for ’write’—­as if literature were a kind of pig.  However, it’s perhaps no worse than the use of Asti for champagne.  One should n’t be too fastidious.  I must really try to think of some method of telling her in Spanish.”

Marietta went to fetch the Asti.

XXIII

When Peter rose next morning, he pulled a grimace at the departed night.

“You are a detected cheat,” he cried, “an unmasked impostor.  You live upon your reputation as a counsellor—­’tis the only reason why we bear with you.  La nuit porte conseil!  Yet what counsel have you brought to me?—­and I at the pass where my need is uttermost.  Shall I go to her this afternoon, and unburden my soul—­or shall I not?  You have left me where you found me—­in the same fine, free, and liberal state of vacillation.  Discredited oracle!”

He was standing before his dressing-table, brushing his hair.  The image in the glass frowned back at him.  Then something struck him.

“At all events, we’ll go this morning to Spiaggia, and have our hair cut,” he resolved.