“Then what is it?” asked Bartelommeo, moved to speech.
“She is going the other way. Didn’t you catch the tears in her voice yesterday? She smiled at my stories, and carried herself bravely; but her eyes were heavy, and the corners of her mouth drooped when she was left to her thoughts. And again, my friend, did you not see her face when the young sigñor arrived?”
“She was frightened.”
Pietro laughed softly. “A woman always fears her lover,” he said. “That is just the reason why you married Caterina. You liked her for her shyness. It made you feel yourself a man—a devil of a fellow. Don’t you remember how timid she was, how she tried to avoid you, how she would dodge into anybody’s chalet rather than meet you?”
“But how do you know?” demanded Bartelommeo, waking into resentful appreciation of Pietro’s close acquaintance with his wooing.
“Because I married Lola two years earlier. Women are all the same, no matter what country they hail from—nervous as young chamois before marriage—but after! Body of Bacchus! Was it on Wednesday that Caterina hauled you out of the albergo to chop firewood?”
Bartelommeo grunted, and put his pipe in his mouth again.