ian shawl, in spite of his amiable
expression, would have liked to ring his--Friend's--neck!

And the Marchesa Orsola talked on in her usual guttural, sleepy voice,
and Donna Carabelli, in answering, strove to give her loud, imperious
voice an amiable ring. But to Pasotti's penetrating glance, and cunning
shrewdness it was quite clear that the two old ladies were concealing a
certain dissatisfaction, which was greater in the Marchesa Maironi than
in Donna Eugenia. Every time the door opened the dim eyes of the one and
the dark eyes of the other were turned in that direction. Once it
admitted the prefect of the _Santuario della Caravina_, with little
Signor Paolo Sala, called _el Paolin_--little Paul--and Signor Paolo
Pozzi, called _el Paolon_--big Paul--who were inseparable companions.
Again there entered the Marchese Bianchi, of Oria, a former officer of
the kingdom of Italy, with his daughter. He was a noble type of the
gallant, old soldier, as he stood beside the attractive and vivacious
young girl.

On both occasions a shadow of vexation passed over Donna Carabelli's
face. Her daughter also turned her eyes swiftly towards the door when it
was thrown open, but presently she would begin chatting and laughing
again, more gaily than ever.

"And Don Franco, Marchesa? How is Don Franco?" said the cunning Pasotti,
in a mellifluous voice, as he offered his open snuff-box to his hostess.

"Thank you," the Marchesa answered, bending forward a little and dipping
her fingers into the snuff. "Franco? To tell the truth I am rather
anxious about him. This morning he was not feeling very well, and he has
not appeared yet. I trust----"

"Don Franco?" said the Marchese. "He is out in his boat. We saw him a
few minutes ago, rowing like any boatman."

Donna Eugenia spread her fan open.

"Well done!" said she, fanning furiously. "A most delightful pastime."
Then she closed the fan with a bang, and began biting at it with her
lips.

"Probably he needed the air," the Marchesa observed, in her unruffled,
nasal drawl.

"Probably he needed a wetting," the prefect of the Caravina murmured,
his eyes sparkling with fun. "It is raining!"

"Don Franco is coming now, Signora Marchesa," said the agent's niece,
after a glance at the lake.

"That is good," the sleepy, nasal drawl replied. "I hope he is feeling
better. If not, he will not speak two words. He is a perfectly healthy
boy, but very apprehensive about himself. By the way, Sig