“Dickens—?” she repeated.
“Si—Dickens, Carlo, celebre autore inglese. Why not?” he asked.
Marietta gazed with long-suffering eyes at the horizon.
“Or, to put it differently,” Peter resumed, “I've come all the way from London with nothing better than a dinner jacket in my kit.”
“Dina giacca? Cosa e?” questioned Marietta.
“No matter what it is—the important thing is what it is n't. It is n't a dress-coat.”
“Non e un abito nero,” said Marietta, seeing that he expected her to say something.
“Well—? You perceive my difficulty. Do you think you could make me one?” said Peter.
“Make the Signorino a dress-coat? I? Oh, no, Signorino.” Marietta shook her head.
“I feared as much,” he acknowledged. “Is there a decent tailor in the village?”