“Delightful,” agreed Peter, between two heart-beats.--Yet he looked, in his grey flannels, with his straw-hat and his eyeglass, with his lean face, his even colour, his slightly supercilious moustaches--he looked a very embodiment of cool-blooded English equanimity. “A trifle warm, perhaps?” the Duchessa suggested, with her air of polite (or was it in some part humorous?) readiness to defer to his opinion. “But surely,” suggested he, “in Italy, in summer, it is its bounden duty to be a trifle warm?” The Duchessa smiled. “You like it? So do I. But what the country really needs is rain.” “Then let us hope,” said he, “that the country's real needs may remain unsatisfied.” The Duchessa tittered. “Think of the poor farmers,” she said reproachfully. “It's vain to think of them,” he answered. “'T is an ascertained fact that no condition of the weather ever contents the farmers.” The Duchessa laughed. “Ah, well,” she consented, “then I 'll join in your hope that the fine weather may last. I--I trust,” she was so good as to add, “that you're not entirely uncomfortable at Villa Floriano?” “I dare n't allow myself to speak of Villa Floriano,” he replied. “I should become dithyrambic. It's too adorable.” “It has a pretty garden, and--I remember--you admired the view,” the Duchessa said. “And that old Marietta? I trust she does for you fairly well?” Her raised eyebrows expressed benevolent (or was it in some part humorous?) concern. “She does for me to perfection. That old Marietta is a priceless old jewel,” Peter vowed. “A good cook?” questioned the Duchessa. “A good cook--but also a counsellor and friend. And with a flow of language!” The Duchessa laughed again. “Oh, these Lombard peasant women. They are untiring chatterers.” “I 'm not sure,” Peter felt himself in justice bound to confess, “that Marietta is n't equally untiring as a listener. In fact, there's only one respect in which she has disappointed me.” “Oh--?” said the Duchessa. And her raised eyebrows demanded particulars. “She swears she does n't wear a dagger in her garter--has never heard of such a practice,” Peter explained. “And now,” he whispered to his soul, “we 'll see whether our landlady is up in modern literature.” Still again the Duchessa laughed. And, apparently, she was up in modern literature. At any rate-- “Those are Lombard country-girls along the coast,” she reminded him. “We are peaceful inland folk, miles from the sea. But you had best be on your guard, none the less.” She shook her head, in warning. “Through all this country-side that old Marietta is reputed to be a witch.” “If she's a witch,” said Peter, undismayed, “her usefulness will be doubled. I shall put her to the test directly I get home.” “Sprinkle her with holy water?” laughed the Duchessa. “Have a care. If she should turn into a black cat, and fly away on a broomstick, you'd never forgive yourself.” Wherewith she swept on to her carriage, followed by her young companion.