III

That afternoon, seated on the moss, under a tall eucalyptus tree near to Frau Brandt’s pavilion, Maria Dolores received a visit from Annunziata.

Annunziata’s pale little face was paler, her big grave eyes were graver, even than their wont.  She nodded her head, slowly, portentously; and her glance was heavy with significance.

Maria Dolores smiled.  “What is the matter?” she cheerfully inquired.

“Ah,” sighed Annunziata, deeply, with another portentous head-shake, “I wish I knew.”

Maria Dolores laughed.  “Sit down,” she suggested, making room beside her on the moss, “and try to think.”

Annunziata sat down, curled herself up.  “Something has happened to Prospero,” she said, de profundis.

“Oh?” asked Maria Dolores.  “What?” She seemed heartlessly cheerful, and even rather amused.

“Ah,” sighed Annunziata, “that is what I wish I knew.  He has had a friend to pass the day with him.”

“Yes?” said Maria Dolores.  “I expect I saw his friend walking with him this morning?”

“Gia,” said Annunziata.  “They have been walking about all day. His friend Prospero he calls him.  But he doesn’t look very prosperous.  He looks like a slate-pencil.  He is long and thin, and dark and cold, and hard, just like a slate-pencil.  He would not stay the night, though we had a bed prepared for him.  He is going to Rome, and Prospero has driven him to the railway station at Cortello.  I hate him,” wound up Annunziata, simply.

“Mercy!” exclaimed Maria Dolores, opening her eyes.  “Why do you hate him?”

“Because he must have said or done something very unkind to Prospero,” answered Annunziata.  “Oh, you should see him.  He is so sad—­so sad and so angry.  He keeps scowling, and shaking his head, and saying things in English, which I cannot understand, but I am sure they are sad things and angry things.  And he would not eat any dinner,—­no, not that much,” (Annunziata measured off an inch on her finger), “he who always eats a great deal,—­eh, ma molto, molto,” and, separating her hands, she measured off something like twenty inches in the air.

Maria Dolores couldn’t help laughing a little at this.  But afterwards she said, on a key consolatory, “Ah, well, he has gone away now, so let us hope your friend Prospero will promptly recover his accustomed appetite.”

“Yes,” said Annunziata, “I hope so.  But oh, that old slate-pencil man, how I hate him!  I would like to—­uhhh!” She clenched her little white fist, and shook it, threateningly, vehemently, while her eyes fiercely flashed. ...  Next instant, however, her mien entirely changed.  Like a light extinguished, all the fierceness went out of her face, making way for what seemed pain and terror.  “There,” she cried, pain and terror in her voice, “I have offended God.  Oh, I am so sorry, so sorry.  My sin, my sin, my sin,” she murmured, bowing her head, and thrice striking her breast.