Peter went into the house, and knocked at Marietta's bed-room door. He found her in bed, with her rosary in her hands. If she could not work, she would not waste her time. In Marietta's simple scheme of life, work and prayer, prayer and work, stood, no doubt, as alternative and complementary duties.
“But you are not half warmly enough covered up,” said Peter.
He fetched his travelling-rug, and spread it over her. Then he went to the kitchen, where she had left a fire burning, and filled a bottle with hot water.
“Put this at your feet,” he said, returning to Marietta.
“Oh, I cannot allow the Signorino to wait on me like this,” the old woman mustered voice to murmur.
“The Signorino likes it—it affords him healthful exercise,” Peter assured her.
Dr. Carretaji came about noon, a fat middleaged man, with a fringe of black hair round an ivory-yellow scalp, a massive watch-chain (adorned by the inevitable pointed bit of coral), and podgy, hairy hands. But he seemed kind and honest, and he seemed to know his business.
“She has a catarrh of the larynx, with, I am afraid, a beginning of bronchitis,” was his verdict.
“Is there any danger?” Peter asked.
“Not the slightest. She must remain in bed, and take frequent nourishment. Hot milk, and now and then beef-tea. I will send some medicine. But the great things are nourishment and warmth. I will call again to-morrow.”