“No, eccellenza.”
“I want to see him.”
“Such as he are better left undisturbed.”
The little Viterbo woman knew perfectly where he had gone, but she would have fenced for an hour and not let it out. And there was a touch of disquiet in her manner.
“Then I must ask Peppina?”
“Peppina may know. Yes, eccellenza, that is true,” returned Nina. She reflected that Peppina would probably also keep her knowledge to herself. “It is certain she may know.”
Teresa made no further attempt. She went down the stairs and out into the sun. Her heart grew gay as she felt the warm blessed glow and saw the clear bright colours of the South. She was going to the Maxwells’ hotel, but made a round on purpose to breathe the light air, and to have a look at a vegetable shop which she wanted to paint, where lettuces, tomatoes, green peas, carrots, rings of endive, orange flesh of gourds, glowed out of a cavernous darkness. Then she dawdled round and up the Spanish steps, greeted by smiles from the models and importunities from creatures just out of babyhood—all faded olive greens and blues, rags, and enchanting smiles, with a violet or two twisted shamelessly up for sale—until she had passed her own street again, and reached the Maxwells’ hotel.
“Is Peppina in?” she asked, after paying a decent tribute of attention to Mary Maxwell’s latest grievances.
“Not she! She always has something to buy or to ask about. It seems to me that is all I pay her for. Why do you ask?”
“I want to hear of her Cesare.”