XXVI
And then Marietta fell ill.
One morning, when she came into his room, to bring his tea, and to open the Venetian blinds that shaded his windows, she failed to salute him with her customary brisk “Buon giorno, Signorino.”
Noticing which, and wondering, he, from his pillow, called out, “Buon' giorno, Marietta.”
“Buon' giorno, Signorino,” she returned but in a whisper.
“What's the matter? Is there cause for secrecy?” Peter asked.
“I have a cold, Signorino,” she whispered, pointing to her chest. “I cannot speak.”
The Venetian blinds were up by this time; the room was full of sun. He looked at her. Something in her face alarmed him. It seemed drawn and set, it seemed flushed.
“Come here,” he said, with a certain peremptoriness. “Give me your hand.”
She wiped her brown old hand backwards and forwards across her apron; then gave it to him.