th
rapid and imperious gestures, gave his wife some orders of unknown
purport. Then he himself left the boat. Last to get out was the poor
woman, wrapped in her Indian shawl, bending under the tall, black bonnet
with the little, yellow roses, staggering, and stretching out her big
hands in the canary-coloured gloves. The two curls, hanging on either
side of her meek ugliness, gave her a special air of resignation, under
the umbrella of her husband, proprietor, inspector and jealous custodian
of so much elegance.

The three went up to the portico, by means of which the little Villa
Maironi spans the road leading from the landing-stage to the
parish-church of Cressogno. Between two happy sighs, the curate and
Pasotti sniffed an indistinct, warm odour, which floated out from the
open vestibule of the villa.

"Ah! _risotto! risotto!_" the priest whispered, with a greedy glow on
his face.

Pasotti, who had a keen nose, shook his head, knitting his brows in
manifest contempt for that other nose.

"It is not _risotto_," said he.

"What do you mean by saying it is not _risotto_?" the priest exclaimed
in vexation. "It _is risotto_; _risotto_ with truffles. Don't you
smell it?"

Both stopped half way across the vestibule, sniffing the air noisily
like a couple of hounds.

"Do me the favour, my dear curate, to confine your remarks to
_posciandra_," said Pasotti, after a long pause, alluding to a certain
coarse dish the peasants prepare, with cabbage and sausages. "Truffles
there are, but _risotto_ there is not!"

"_Posciandra! posciandra!_" the other grumbled, somewhat offended. "As
to that----"

The poor, meek lady understood that they were quarrelling, and, much
alarmed, began pointing upward towards the ceiling, with her right
forefinger, to warn them that they might be overheard up above. Her
husband seized her uplifted arm, signed to her to sniff, and then blew
into her wide open mouth the word: "_Risotto_."

She hesitated, not having heard distinctly. Pasotti shrugged his
shoulders. "She don't understand anything," said he. "The weather is
going to change," and he went up stairs, followed by his wife. The stout
curate wished to take another look at Don Franco's boat. "The
Carabellis, indeed!" he mused, but he was immediately recalled by
Signora Barborin, who begged him to sit beside her at the table; she was
so timid, poor creature!

The fumes of the pots and kettles filled the stairs with warm fragrance.
"I