Peppino had already begun his macaroni and must pause to shovel the
outlying strings of it into his mouth. But the haste with which he did
so was sufficient guaranty for his eagerness to reply as soon as it was
humanly possible to do so.

"Indian, my dear?" he asked with the greatest interest.

"Yes; turban and burnous and calves and slippers," she said rather
impatiently, for what was the good of Peppino having remained in
Riseholme if he could not give her precise and certain information on
local news when she returned. His prose-poems were all very well, but
as prince-consort he had other duties of state which must not be
neglected for the calls of Art.

This slight asperity on her part seemed to sharpen his wits.

"Really, I don't know for certain, Lucia," he said, "for I have not set
my eyes on him. But putting two and two together, I might make a
guess."

"Two and two make four," she said with that irony for which she was
feared and famous. "Now for your guess. I hope it is equally accurate."

"Well, as I told you in one of my letters," said he, "Mrs Quantock
showed signs of being a little off with Christian Science. She had a
cold, and though she recited the True Statement of Being just as
frequently as before, her cold got no better. But when I saw her on
Tuesday last, unless it was Wednesday, no, it couldn't have been
Wednesday, so it must have been Tuesday--"