“I dare n’t allow myself to speak of Villa Floriano,” he replied.  “I should become dithyrambic.  It’s too adorable.”

“It has a pretty garden, and—­I remember—­you admired the view,” the Duchessa said.  “And that old Marietta?  I trust she does for you fairly well?” Her raised eyebrows expressed benevolent (or was it in some part humorous?) concern.

“She does for me to perfection.  That old Marietta is a priceless old jewel,” Peter vowed.

“A good cook?” questioned the Duchessa.

“A good cook—­but also a counsellor and friend.  And with a flow of language!”

The Duchessa laughed again.

“Oh, these Lombard peasant women.  They are untiring chatterers.”

“I ’m not sure,” Peter felt himself in justice bound to confess, “that Marietta is n’t equally untiring as a listener.  In fact, there’s only one respect in which she has disappointed me.”

“Oh—?” said the Duchessa.  And her raised eyebrows demanded particulars.

“She swears she does n’t wear a dagger in her garter—­has never heard of such a practice,” Peter explained.  “And now,” he whispered to his soul, “we ’ll see whether our landlady is up in modern literature.”

Still again the Duchessa laughed.  And, apparently, she was up in modern literature.  At any rate—­

“Those are Lombard country-girls along the coast,” she reminded him.  “We are peaceful inland folk, miles from the sea.  But you had best be on your guard, none the less.”  She shook her head, in warning.  “Through all this country-side that old Marietta is reputed to be a witch.”

“If she’s a witch,” said Peter, undismayed, “her usefulness will be doubled.  I shall put her to the test directly I get home.”

“Sprinkle her with holy water?” laughed the Duchessa.  “Have a care.  If she should turn into a black cat, and fly away on a broomstick, you’d never forgive yourself.”

Wherewith she swept on to her carriage, followed by her young companion.

The sprightly French bays tossed their heads, making the harness tinkle.  The footman mounted the box.  The carriage rolled away.

But Peter remained for quite a minute motionless on the door-step, gazing, bemused, down the long, straight, improbable village street, with its poplars, its bridge, its ancient stone cross, its irregular pink and yellow houses—­as improbable as a street in opera-bouffe.  A thin cloud of dust floated after the carriage, a thin screen of white dust, which, in the sun, looked like a fume of silver.

“I think I could put my finger on a witch worth two of Marietta,” he said, in the end.”  And thus we see,” he added, struck by something perhaps not altogether novel in his own reflection, “how the primary emotions, being perennial, tend to express themselves in perennial formulae.”

VI

Back at the villa, he enquired of Marietta who the pretty brown-eyed young girl might have been.