Nevertheless, that evening, he said to Marietta, “The plot thickens. We've advanced a step. We've reached what the vulgar call a psychological moment. She's seen my Portrait of a Lady. But as yet, if you can believe me, she doesn't dream who painted it; and she has n't recognised the subject. As if one were to face one's image in the glass, and take it for another's! 3--I 'll--I 'll double your wages--if you will induce events to hurry up.” However, as he spoke English, Marietta was in no position to profit by his offer. XIII Peter was walking in the high-road, on the other side of the river--the great high-road that leads from Bergamo to Milan. It was late in the afternoon, and already, in the west, the sky was beginning to put on some of its sunset splendours. In the east, framed to Peter's vision by parallel lines of poplars, it hung like a curtain of dark-blue velvet. Peter sat on the grass, by the roadside, in the shadow of a hedge--a rose-bush hedge, of course--and lighted a cigarette. Far down the long white road, against the blue velvet sky, between the poplars, two little spots of black, two small human figures, were moving towards him. Half absently, he let his eyes accompany them. As they came nearer, they defined themselves as a boy and a girl. Nearer still, he saw that they were ragged and dusty and barefoot. The boy had three or four gaudy-hued wicker baskets slung over his shoulder. Vaguely, tacitly, Peter supposed that they would be the children of some of the peasants of the countryside, on their way home from the village. As they arrived abreast of him, they paid him the usual peasants' salute. The boy lifted a tattered felt hat from his head, the girl bobbed a courtesy, and “Buona sera, Eccellenza,” they said in concert, without, however, pausing in their march. Peter put his hand in his pocket. “Here, little girl,” he called. The little girl glanced at him, doubting. “Come here,” he said. Her face a question, she came up to him; and he gave her a few coppers. “To buy sweetmeats,” he said. “A thousand thanks; Excellency,” said she, bobbing another courtesy. “A thousand thanks, Excellency,” said the boy, from his distance, again lifting his rag of a hat. And they trudged on. But Peter looked after them--and his heart smote him. They were clearly of the poorest of the poor. He thought of Hansel and Gretel. Why had he given them so little? He called to them to stop. The little girl came running back. Peter rose to meet her. “You may as well buy some ribbons too,” he said, and gave her a couple of lire. She looked at the money with surprise--even with an appearance of hesitation. Plainly, it was a sum, in her eyes. “It's all right. Now run along,” said Peter. “A thousand thanks, Excellency,” said she, with a third courtesy, and rejoined her brother.... “Where are they going?” asked a voice. Peter faced about.