“I do not understand, Signorino,” said Marietta.

“Of course, you don’t,” said Peter.  “Who ever could understand such stuff and nonsense?  That’s the worst of it.  If only one could understand, if only one could believe it, one might find peace, one might resign oneself.  But alas and alas!  I have never had any real faith in human wickedness; and now, try as I will, I cannot imbue my mind with any real faith in the undesirability of woman.  That is why you see me dissolved in tears, and unable to eat my dinner.  Oh, to think, to think,” he cried with passion, suddenly breaking into English, “to think that less than a fortnight ago, less than one little brief fortnight ago, she was seated in your kitchen, seated there familiarly, in her wet clothes, pouring tea, for all the world as if she was the mistress of the house!”

Days passed.  He could not go to Ventirose—­or, anyhow, he thought he could not.  He reverted to his old habit of living in his garden, haunting the riverside, keeping watchful, covetous eyes turned towards the castle.  The river bubbled and babbled; the sun shone strong and clear; his fountain tinkled; his birds flew about their affairs; his flowers breathed forth their perfumes; the Gnisi frowned, the uplands westward laughed, the snows of Monte Sfiorito sailed under every colour of the calendar except their native white.  All was as it had ever been—­but oh, the difference to him.  A week passed.  He caught no glimpse of the Duchessa.  Yet he took no steps to get his boxes packed.

XXVI

And then Marietta fell ill.

One morning, when she came into his room, to bring his tea, and to open the Venetian blinds that shaded his windows, she failed to salute him with her customary brisk “Buon giorno, Signorino.”

Noticing which, and wondering, he, from his pillow, called out, “Buon’ giorno, Marietta.”

“Buon’ giorno, Signorino,” she returned but in a whisper.

“What’s the matter?  Is there cause for secrecy?” Peter asked.

“I have a cold, Signorino,” she whispered, pointing to her chest.  “I cannot speak.”

The Venetian blinds were up by this time; the room was full of sun.  He looked at her.  Something in her face alarmed him.  It seemed drawn and set, it seemed flushed.

“Come here,” he said, with a certain peremptoriness.  “Give me your hand.”

She wiped her brown old hand backwards and forwards across her apron; then gave it to him.

It was hot and dry.

“Your cold is feverish,” he said.  “You must go to bed, and stay there till the fever has passed.”

“I cannot go to bed, Signorino,” she replied.

“Can’t you?  Have you tried?” asked he.

“No, Signorino,” she admitted.

“Well, you never can tell whether you can do a thing or not, until you try,” said he.  “Try to go to bed; and if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.”