“That old dowager—?” repeated Marietta, blank.
“That old widow woman—my landlady—the Duchessa Vedova di Santangiolo.”
“She is not very old—only twenty-six, twenty-seven,” said Marietta.
“Don't try to persuade me that she is n't old enough to know better,” retorted Peter, sternly.
“But she has her guards, her keepers, to look after her property,” said Marietta.
“Guards and keepers are mere mercenaries. If you want a thing well done, you should do it yourself,” said Peter, with gloomy sententiousness.
On Sunday he went to the little grey rococo parish church. There were two Masses, one at eight o'clock, one at ten—and the church was quite a mile from Villa Floriano, and up a hill; and the Italian sun was hot—but the devoted young man went to both.
The Duchessa was at neither.
“What does she think will become of her immortal soul?” he asked Marietta.
On Monday he went to the pink-stuccoed village post-office.