“Marietta!” he cried, entering that apartment with the mien of Nemesis. “I thought I told you to go to bed.”
Marietta cowered a little, and looked sheepish, as one surprised in the flagrant fact of misdemeanour.
“Yes, Signorino,” she whispered.
“Well—? Do you call this bed?” he demanded.
“No, Signorino,” she acknowledged.
“Do you wish to oblige me to put you to bed?” he asked.
“Oh, no, Signorino,” she protested, horror in her whisper.
“Then go to bed directly. If you delay any longer, I shall accuse you of wilful insubordination.”
“Bene, Signorino,” reluctantly consented Marietta.
Peter strolled into his garden. Gigi, the gardener, was working there.