“You evade me by a vicious circle,” Peter murmured.
Marietta made a mighty effort-brought all her faculties to a focus—studied Peter's countenance intently. Her own was suddenly illumined.
“Ah, I understand,” she proclaimed, vigorously nodding. “The Signorino desires to know who she is personally!”
“I express myself in obscure paraphrases,” said he; “but you, with your unfailing Italian simpatia, have divined the exact shade of my intention.”
“She is the widow of the Duca di Santangiolo,” said Marietta.
“Enfin vous entrez dans la voie des aveux,” said Peter.
“Scusi?” said Marietta.
“I am glad to hear she's a widow,” said he. “She—she might strike a casual observer as somewhat young, for a widow.”
“She is not very old,” agreed Marietta; “only twenty-six, twenty-seven. She was married from the convent. That was eight, nine years ago. The Duca has been dead five or six.”
“And was he also young and lovely?”