"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?"

"_Già_," 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,"