“I cannot go to bed.  Who would do the Signorino’s work?” was her whispered objection.

“Hang the Signorino’s work.  The Signorino’s work will do itself.  Have you never observed that if you conscientiously neglect to do your work, it somehow manages to get done without you?  You have a feverish cold; you must keep out of draughts; and the only place where you can be sure of keeping out of draughts, is bed.  Go to bed at once.”

She left the room.

But when Peter came downstairs, half an hour later, he heard her moving in her kitchen.

“Marietta!” he cried, entering that apartment with the mien of Nemesis.  “I thought I told you to go to bed.”

Marietta cowered a little, and looked sheepish, as one surprised in the flagrant fact of misdemeanour.

“Yes, Signorino,” she whispered.

“Well—?  Do you call this bed?” he demanded.

“No, Signorino,” she acknowledged.

“Do you wish to oblige me to put you to bed?” he asked.

“Oh, no, Signorino,” she protested, horror in her whisper.

“Then go to bed directly.  If you delay any longer, I shall accuse you of wilful insubordination.”

“Bene, Signorino,” reluctantly consented Marietta.

Peter strolled into his garden.  Gigi, the gardener, was working there.

“The very man I most desired to meet,” said Peter, and beckoned to him.  “Is there a doctor in the village?” he enquired, when Gigi had approached.

“Yes, Signorino.  The Syndic is a doctor—­Dr. Carretaji.”

“Good,” said Peter.  “Will you go to the village, please, and ask Dr. Carretaji if he can make it convenient to call here to-day?  Marietta is not well.”

“Yes, Signorino.”

“And stop a bit,” said Peter.  “Are there such things as women in the village?’

“Ah, mache, Signorino!  But many, many,” answered Gigi, rolling his dark eyes sympathetically, and waving his hands.

“I need but one,” said Peter.  “A woman to come and do Marietta’s work for a day or two—­cook, and clean up, and that sort of thing.  Do you think you could procure me such a woman?”

“There is my wife, Signorino,” suggested Gigi.  “If she would content the Signorino?”

“Oh?  I was n’t aware that you were married.  A hundred felicitations.  Yes, your wife, by all means.  Ask her to come and rule as Marietta’s vicereine.”

Gigi started for the village.

Peter went into the house, and knocked at Marietta’s bed-room door.  He found her in bed, with her rosary in her hands.  If she could not work, she would not waste her time.  In Marietta’s simple scheme of life, work and prayer, prayer and work, stood, no doubt, as alternative and complementary duties.

“But you are not half warmly enough covered up,” said Peter.

He fetched his travelling-rug, and spread it over her.  Then he went to the kitchen, where she had left a fire burning, and filled a bottle with hot water.