Piccino’s eyes grew bigger and more lustrous every second as he stared. Was she doing this interesting but rather alarming thing to amuse him? Maria had never seen anything like this in San Remo, or she would certainly have told him. He was seeing more than Maria. For a moment or so he was not sorry he had come. If the rich _forestieri_ had things like this to play with, they must have other things as amusing. And somehow the water was hot. He could see the pretty white steam rise from it. He came a little closer to look. “Nicola,” as he called her in his mind, having heard Lady Aileen speak to her as “Nicholson”—Nicola moved to and fro and collected curious things together—a white cake of something, a big, light, round thing made of holes, large pieces of thick, soft, white cloth with fringe at the ends, something—these last—which must be like the things Maria had heard of as being used in churches by the priests. “_Che fai?_” (What are you doing?) he said to Nicola. But she did not understand him, and only said something in English as she took off her white cuffs and rolled up her sleeves. By this time the two rushing streams had splashed and danced into the bed of the torrent until it was nearly full. Nicola twisted the silver things as before, and by magic again the rushing ceased and the clear pool was still, the light vapor rising from it. Nicola came to him and began to take off his clothes with the very tips of her fingers, speaking in English as she did it. He did not know that she was saying: “A pretty piece of work for a lady’s maid to do. My own clothes may go into the washtub and the rag-bag after it. The filth of such people is past bearing. And it’s her ladyship all over to have such a freak. There’s no end to her whims. Burn them! she might well say burn them. The sooner they are in the fire the better.” She took off the last rag and kicked it aside with her foot. Piccino stood before her, a little, soft, brown cherub without wings. “Upon my word!” she said, “he is pretty. I suppose that’s the reason.” Piccino was beginning to feel very queer indeed. The rushing water was amusing, but what was her intention in taking off all his clothes? That was not funny. Surely the _forestieri_ wore clothes when they were in San Remo. And, besides, she had given his cherished trousers—the beautiful trousers of Sandro which had been given him for his own—a kick which had no respect in it, and which sent them flying into a corner. His little red mouth began to look unsteady at the corners. “Yes, that’s the reason,” she said. “It’s because he’s so pretty.” And she picked him up in her arms and bore him to the bath. Piccino looked down into the blue and white pool which seemed to him so big and deep. He felt himself being lowered into it, and uttered a wild shriek. They were going to drown him—to drown him—to drown him!