On Monday evening, at the end of dinner, as she set the fruit before him, “The Signorino will take coffee?” old Marietta asked.
Peter frowned at the fruit, figs and peaches—
“Figs imperial purple, and blushing peaches”—
ranged alternately, with fine precision, in a circle, round a central heap of translucent yellow grapes.
“Is this the produce of my own vine and fig-tree?” he demanded.
“Yes, Signorino; and also peach-tree,” replied Marietta.
“Peaches do not grow on fig-trees?” he enquired.
“No, Signorino,” said Marietta.
“Nor figs on thistles. I wonder why not,” said he.
“It is n't Nature,” was Marietta's confident generalisation.