"But pardon, Signorino," she insisted; "if they are not Catholics,
they must be Freemasons or Jews. They cannot be Christians.
Christian--Catholic: it is the same. All Christians are Catholics."

"Tu quoque!" he cried. "You regard the terms as interchangeable? I 've
heard the identical sentiment similarly enunciated by another. Do I look
like a Freemason?"

She bent her sharp old eyes upon him studiously for a moment. Then she
shook her head.

"No," she answered slowly. "I do not think that the Signorino looks like
a Freemason."

"A Jew, then?"

"Mache! A Jew? The Signorino!" She shrugged derision.

"And yet I'm what they call a Protestant," he said.

"No," said she.

"Yes," said he. "I refer you to my sponsors in baptism. A regular, true
blue moderate High Churchman and Tory, British and Protestant to the
backbone, with 'Frustrate their Popish tricks' writ large all over me.
You have never by any chance married a Protestant yourself?" he asked.

"No, Signorino. I have never married any one. But it was not for the
lack of occasions. Twenty, thirty young men courted me when I was a
girl. But--mica!--I would not look at them. When men are young they are
too unsteady for husbands; when they are old they have the rheumatism."

"Admirably philosophised," he approved. "But it sometimes happens that
men are neither young nor old. There are men of thirty-five--I have even
heard that there are men of forty. What of them?"

"There is a proverb, Signorino, which says, Sposi di quarant' anni son
mai sempre tiranni," she informed him.

"For the matter of that," he retorted, "there is a proverb which says,
Love laughs at locksmiths."

"Non capisco," said Marietta.

"That's merely because it's English," said he. "You'd understand fast
enough if I should put it in Italian. But I only quoted it to show the
futility of proverbs. Laugh at locksmiths, indeed! Why, it can't even
laugh at such an insignificant detail as a Papist's prejudices. But
I wish I were a duke and a millionaire. Do you know any one who could
create me a duke and endow me with a million?"

"No, Signorino," she answered, shaking her head.

"Fragrant Cytherea, foam-born Venus, deathless Aphrodite, cannot,
goddess though she is," he complained. "The fact is, I 'm feeling
rather undone. I think I will ask you to bring me a bottle of
Asti-spumante--some of the dry kind, with the white seal. I 'll try
to pretend that it's champagne. To tell or not to