The dining-room was bright with lighted candles, spotless linen, and shining silver. The centre-piece of fruit—grapes, apples, and pears—shone golden with autumn tints. Through the closed shutters the faintest patter of rain was perceptible. The light fell upon two huge oaken cupboards, whose glass doors revealed within various services of porcelain and crystal, and on the panels of which were carved birds, fish, and fruit. Two high-backed armchairs faced each other. The whole room was pervaded by a sense of peace and order. The macaroni pasty, copper-coloured within its paler crust, was smoking on the table. Andrea ate heartily and in silence; he had helped himself three times. Caterina, who had taken her share with the appetite of a healthy young woman, watched while he ate, with her chin in the air and a little smile on her face.
“Perdio! how good this pie is! Tell the cook, Caterina, to repeat it as often as he likes.”
“I will make a note of it in the household book. Will you have some more?”
“No, basta. Ring, please. Has it rained all day here?”
“Since last night.”
“At Santa Maria, too. Would you believe it? I went as far as Mazzoni, to the Torone, our farm over there.”
“Did you sleep there last night?”
“Yes; a good bed. Coarse but sweet-smelling sheets. But I was furious with the weather. Have some beef, Nini. There is no sport to be had now. Who has been here?”
“Pepe Guardini, one of the Nola tenants. He wants a reduction.”
“I’ve given him three reductions. He is a drunkard and too ready with his knife. He must pay.”