Marietta fixed her eyes anxiously on Peter’s face.

“First,” she whispered, “I wish to beg the Signorino to pardon all this trouble I am making for him.  I am the Signorino’s servant; but instead of serving, I make trouble for him.”

She paused.  The Cardinal smiled at Peter.

Peter answered, “Marietta, if you talk like that, you will make the Signorino cry.  You are the best servant that ever lived.  You are putting me to no trouble at all.  You are giving me a chance—­which I should be glad of, except that it involves your suffering—­to show my affection for you, and my gratitude.”

“There, dear,” said the Cardinal to her, “you see the Signorino makes nothing of that.  Now the next thing.  Go on.”

I have to ask the Signorino’s forgiveness for my impertinence,” whispered Marietta.

“Impertinence—?” faltered Peter.  “You have never been impertinent.”

“Scusi, Signorino,” she went on, in her whisper.  “I have sometimes contradicted the Signorino.  I contradicted the Signorino when he told me that St. Anthony of Padua was born in Lisbon.  It is impertinent of a servant to contradict her master.  And now his most high Eminence says the Signorino was right.  I beg the Signorino to forgive me.”

Again the Cardinal smiled at Peter.

“You dear old woman,” Peter half laughed, half sobbed, “how can you ask me to forgive a mere difference of opinion?  You—­you dear old thing.”

The Cardinal smiled, and patted Marietta’s hand.

“The Signorino is too good,” Marietta sighed.

“Go on, dear,” said the Cardinal.

“I have been guilty of the deadly sin of evil speaking.  I have spoken evil of the Signorino,” she went on.  “I said—­I said to people—­that the Signorino was simple—­that he was simple and natural.  I thought so then.  Now I know it is not so.  I know it is only that the Signorino is English.”

Once more the Cardinal smiled at Peter.

Again Peter half laughed, half sobbed.

“Marietta!  Of course I am simple and natural.  At least, I try to be.  Come!  Look up.  Smile.  Promise you will not worry about these things any more.”

She looked up, she smiled faintly.

“The Signorino is too good,” she whispered.

After a little interval of silence, “Now, dear,” said the Cardinal, “the last thing of all.”

Marietta gave a groan, turning her head from side to side on her pillow.

“You need not be afraid,” said the Cardinal.  “Mr. Marchdale will certainly forgive you.”

“Oh-h-h,” groaned Marietta.  She stared at the ceiling for an instant.

The Cardinal patted her hand.  “Courage, courage,” he said.

“Oh—­Signorino mio,” she groaned again, “this you never can forgive me.  It is about the little pig, the porcellino.  The Signorino remembers the little pig, which he called Francesco?”