But at sight of Peter, she abruptly halted. She struck an attitude of alarm. She fixed him with her fiery little black eyes.
“The Signorino is not well!” she cried, in the tones of one launching a denunciation.
Peter roused himself.
“Er—yes—I 'm pretty well, thank you,” he reassured her. “I—I 'm only dying,” he added, sweetly, after an instant's hesitation.
“Dying—!” echoed Marietta, wild, aghast.
“Ah, but you can save my life—you come in the very nick of time,” he said. “I'm dying of curiosity—dying to know something that you can tell me.”
Her stare dissolved, her attitude relaxed. She smiled—relief, rebuke. She shook her finger at him.
“Ah, the Signorino gave me a fine fright,” she said.
“A thousand regrets,” said Peter. “Now be a succouring angel, and make a clean breast of it. Who is my landlady?”
Marietta drew back a little. Her brown old visage wrinkled up, perplexed.