“Who is the Signorino's landlady?” she repeated.
“Ang,” said he, imitating the characteristic nasalised eh of Italian affirmation, and accompanying it by the characteristic Italian jerk of the head.
Marietta eyed him, still perplexed—even (one might have fancied) a bit suspicious.
“But is it not in the Signorino's lease?” she asked, with caution.
“Of course it is,” said he. “That's just the point. Who is she?”
“But if it is in your lease!” she expostulated.
“All the more reason why you should make no secret of it,” he argued plausibly. “Come! Out with it! Who is my landlady?”
Marietta exchanged a glance with heaven.
“The Signorino's landlady is the Duchessa di Santangiolo,” she answered, in accents of resignation.
But then the name seemed to stimulate her; and she went on “She lives there—at Castel Ventirose.” Marietta pointed towards the castle. “She owns all, all this country, all these houses—all, all.” Marietta joined her brown old hands together, and separated them, like a swimmer, in a gesture that swept the horizon. Her eyes snapped.