"Then you know!" the curate exclaimed. "I know it also. The cook told me yesterday at Lugano."
"And besides, some ladies have been invited; the Carabellis, mother and daughter. Those Carabellis from Loveno, you know."
"Indeed!" the curate exclaimed. "Is there any scheme——? There is Don Franco, now, in his boat. But what a strange flag the young man is flying! I never saw him with it before."
Pasotti raised the awning and looked out. At a little distance a boat flying a white and blue flag rose and fell in unison with the weary motion of the waves. In the stern, under the flag, sat Don Franco Maironi, the grandson of the old Marchesa Orsola, who was giving the dinner.
Pasotti saw him rise, grasp the oars, and pull away, rowing slowly towards the upper lake, towards the wild gulf of the Doi, the white and blue flag spread wide, and floating above the boat's trail.
"Where is that eccentric young man going?" said he. And he muttered between his teeth; in the strained and husky voice of a Milanese rough—"A surly fellow!"
"They say he has great talents," the priest observed.
"An empty head," the other declared. "Much arrogance, little learning, no manners!"
"And half rotten," he added. "If I were that young woman——"
"Which?" the curate questioned.