Standing at a window in the portrait-room, he had been looking along the street at Reina’s house, with its fantastically-sculptured gateway and the twisted stone monsters.
“A fine palace—quite a royal one,” said Don Mario, who had never seen anything richer or more beautiful in his life.
“Yet, how was it the proprietor had never noticed those tufts of pellitory growing between the carvings over the arch of the great gateway, quite spoiling the building? It was a sin and a shame!”
Scarcely had Don Ignazio come home from the mill that evening, tired and out of breath, when his brother said to him—
“Look here; you ought to go to Signor Reina. He is letting nasty weeds grow between the carvings of the gateway, under the middle balcony. It quite worries one to see them.”
“Well?”
“You ought to tell him of it—at least when you meet him again.”
“I will tell him.”
Don Ignazio, quite worn out with his long walk, had other matters to think of; he wanted to have his supper and go to bed.
But from that day he too got no peace. Every evening, when he came home, Don Mario never failed to ask him, even before he had laid aside his stick: “Have you spoken to Reina?”