And so for the third time that day Piccino was deluged with soap and water. But it was not possible for Nicholson to wash away the fragrance of the garlic. Even when he shone with cleanliness outwardly, and had had still another frock put on, he was redolent of it and perfumed all the air about him. He was not, of course, able to translate the names Nicholson called him, but he knew very well that he was being called names. He had often heard Maria scolded at home, but he had not been exactly used to ratings himself. But he could not mistake Nicholson. She was in a rage, and thought him a dirty, troublesome little pig. She had been dressed trimly for the afternoon, and had been enjoying herself looking on at the party in the garden, and to be called to wash and dress again a greasy little peasant, smelling of garlic, was more than her temper could stand. In fact, it happened at last, at some movement of resentment of Piccino’s, she gave him a sound slap for the second time that day. He opened his mouth, gave one howl of rage, and then as suddenly stopped. If he had been twenty-six instead of six he would have stuck his knife into her, if he had had one. He belonged to a race of people who used knives. As it was, the look in his handsome eyes gave Nicholson a queer feeling. He could not be taken back to the _salon_, and Nicholson did not intend to sit in the room with him and inhale garlic. So she set him smartly in an arm-chair and left him, going out and shutting the door after her. She was going to stay in an adjoining chamber and look out of the window, coming to give him a glance now and then. And there he sat, breathing passion and garlic, after she had gone. Upon the wall opposite to him there hung an oval mirror with a frame of flowers in Dresden china. He could see himself in it—his beautiful little face, his flashing eyes, and fiercely pouting mouth, his lace collar and bow, and his _vestite di ragazza_ altogether. He did not know he was pretty, he only felt he was ridiculous—that they had kept putting him in water, that the servants despised him and did not want to touch him, that he had been scolded and slapped, and that the donkey would not know him. Suddenly big tears rushed into his eyes. Was he going to stay here always and be put in water every few hours, and called names, and have no one to play with, and never understand anybody, and never see Maria and the donkey—never—never! The big tears rolled hot and angry as well as miserable down his soft cheeks. “_Voglio andare a casa!_” he sobbed. “_Voglio andare a casa!_” (I want to go home! I want to go home!) * * * * * When Nicholson came to look at him he was lying against the cushioned arm of the chair, fast asleep. “Goodness knows I am not going to waken him!” she said. “I shall let him sleep until I have had my dinner and it is time to give him his. If her ladyship intends to keep him she must have a regular nurse.” CHAPTER IV