half-stupid, half-cunning curiosity.

"But these are sins!" she exclaimed at last.

"And what does it matter?" asked the girl. "Does he go to confession? So
what does it matter? He keeps the account himself, of his sins. I should
not like to have them on my shoulders. But as for Sister Maria
Addolorata--oh, she! I told you that she sinned in her throat. Well, the
sin is ready, now. What is she waiting for? For the abbess to die? Or
for Sor Tommaso to get well? Then she will not see the Signor Englishman
any more. It would be better for her. When she does not see him any
more, she will knead her pillow with tears, and make her bread of it, to
bite and eat. Good appetite, Sister Maria!"

"You talk, you talk, and you conclude nothing," observed Sora Nanna.
"You have certain thoughts in your head! And you do not let the Signore
say even a word."

"What can he say? He will say that it is not true. But then, who will
believe him? I should like to see them a little together. I am sure that
she shows him her face, and that it is 'Signor Doctor' here, and 'Dear
Signor Doctor' there, and a thousand gentlenesses. Tell the truth,
Signore. She shows you her face."

"No," said Dalrymple, who had regained his self-possession. "She never
shows me her face."

"What a shame for a Carmelite nun to show her face to a man!" cried the
girl.

"But I tell you she is always veiled to her chin," insisted Dalrymple,
with perfect truth.

"Eh! It is you who say so!" retorted Annetta. "But then, what can it
matter to me? Make love with a nun, if it goes, Signore. Youth is a
flower--when it is withered, it is hay, and the beasts eat it."

"This is true," said Sora Nanna, returning to her knitting. "But do not
pay attention to her, Signore. She is stupid. She does not know what she
says. Eat, drink, and manage your own affairs. It is better. What can a
child understand? It is like a little dog that sees and barks, without
understanding. But you are a much instructed man and have been round the
whole world. Therefore you know many things. It seems natural."

Though Dalrymple was not diffident, as has been said, he was far from
vain, on the whole, and in particular he had none of that contemptible
vanity which makes a man readily believe that every woman he meets is in
love with him. He had not the slightest idea at that time that Annetta,
the peasant girl, looked upon him with anything more than the curiosity
and vague interest usually bes