“But pardon, Signorino,” she insisted; “if they are not Catholics, they must be Freemasons or Jews. They cannot be Christians. Christian--Catholic: it is the same. All Christians are Catholics.” “Tu quoque!” he cried. “You regard the terms as interchangeable? I 've heard the identical sentiment similarly enunciated by another. Do I look like a Freemason?” She bent her sharp old eyes upon him studiously for a moment. Then she shook her head. “No,” she answered slowly. “I do not think that the Signorino looks like a Freemason.” “A Jew, then?” “Mache! A Jew? The Signorino!” She shrugged derision. “And yet I'm what they call a Protestant,” he said. “No,” said she. “Yes,” said he. “I refer you to my sponsors in baptism. A regular, true blue moderate High Churchman and Tory, British and Protestant to the backbone, with 'Frustrate their Popish tricks' writ large all over me. You have never by any chance married a Protestant yourself?” he asked. “No, Signorino. I have never married any one. But it was not for the lack of occasions. Twenty, thirty young men courted me when I was a girl. But--mica!--I would not look at them. When men are young they are too unsteady for husbands; when they are old they have the rheumatism.” “Admirably philosophised,” he approved. “But it sometimes happens that men are neither young nor old. There are men of thirty-five--I have even heard that there are men of forty. What of them?” “There is a proverb, Signorino, which says, Sposi di quarant' anni son mai sempre tiranni,” she informed him. “For the matter of that,” he retorted, “there is a proverb which says, Love laughs at locksmiths.” “Non capisco,” said Marietta. “That's merely because it's English,” said he. “You'd understand fast enough if I should put it in Italian. But I only quoted it to show the futility of proverbs. Laugh at locksmiths, indeed! Why, it can't even laugh at such an insignificant detail as a Papist's prejudices. But I wish I were a duke and a millionaire. Do you know any one who could create me a duke and endow me with a million?” “No, Signorino,” she answered, shaking her head. “Fragrant Cytherea, foam-born Venus, deathless Aphrodite, cannot, goddess though she is,” he complained. “The fact is, I 'm feeling rather undone. I think I will ask you to bring me a bottle of Asti-spumante--some of the dry kind, with the white seal. I 'll try to pretend that it's champagne. To tell or not to tell--that is the question. 'A face to lose youth for, to occupy age With the dream of, meet death with-- And yet, if you can believe me, the man who penned those lines had never seen her. He penned another line equally pat to the situation, though he had never seen me, either 'Is there no method to tell her in Spanish?”