"Ah-ha! you come quick enough now. That brought my little shorn lamb, eh?" She was tall and stout, with a small head and a dark, diminutive face, red lips, and greenish eyes--not ugly, exactly--but rather repellent. Though she never drank anything herself, she gave an impression of being always a little tipsy, and was very prone to think that other people were so, in fact. Still laughing, she went again to the cupboard. "It's empty," she said. "Nothing there at all; and, do you know, I am hungry!" "If you'll wait a moment I'll go and buy something; but first, you must tell me--" She turned abruptly, laid one hand on his breast, and with the other began to rain blows that were anything but playful. "Ah, you want to know--crocodile. You want to know, do you? That's what brought you in, is it? Go back--enjoy the air, poor, dear little lamb! You want me to tell you? You think it is something about Giovanna Era, eh? And you came in for that, and not to see me?" "Let go," he said, seizing her hands. "You hit hard; the devil take you! Yes, that's what I came in for--well?" "I shan't tell you a word, so there!" "Now, Mattea," he said gently, "don't make me angry; you are not ill-natured. See now, I am going off to buy you whatever you want. What shall it be? What would you like to have?" He was like a child promising to be good if only it can have what it wants. And, in fact, at that moment he did want something; he wanted it badly, and not a nice thing, either. What he wanted was to be told that Brontu had beaten his wife, or that she had met with an accident, or that overwhelming disaster of one sort or another had engulfed the house of Dejas, root and branch. It was, therefore, somewhat disappointing when Mattea, closing one eye, announced that some cattle had been stolen, and that Aunt Martina, on hearing the news, had rushed off like a crazy thing to ascertain the exact extent of the loss. "She will be up at the folds all night, and your wife is all alone--do you understand--alone?" "Well, what difference does that make to me?" "Stupid! You can go to see her.--You won't go? Why, that's what I came expressly to tell you! Of course you'll go; I want you to. I'm sorry for you. After all, you are her husband." "I'm not. I'm not any one's husband," he said, with a shrug. "I thought you would have something very different to tell me. Now--what shall I get you? Beans--milk--bacon--cheese?" "If you're not any one's husband, then marry me," she said, in a low, unsteady voice, like a person who has been drinking. Costantino coughed, and spat on the ground. Instantly a gleam of intelligence shot into her usually dull, expressionless eyes. "Why do you do that?" she asked sharply. "You think, perhaps, that she is better than I?" He flushed, and then a heartsick feeling came over him. "Yes," he said; "you are worse, or--better than she." "What do you say?"