Jerry

CHAPTER III

It was close upon ten when Jerymn Hilliard, Jr., equipped for travel in proper blue serge, appeared in the doorway of the Hotel du Lac. He looked at his watch and discovered that he still had twenty minutes before the omnibus meeting the second boat was due. He strolled across the courtyard, paused for a moment to tease the parrot, and sauntered on to his favourite seat in the summer-house. He had barely established himself with a cigarette when who should appear in the gateway but Miss Constance Wilder, of Villa Rosa, and a middle-aged man—at a glance the Signor   Papa. Jerymn Hilliard’s heart doubled its beat. Why, he asked himself excitedly, why had they come?

The Signor Papa closed his green umbrella, and having dropped into a chair—obligingly near the summer-house—took off his hat and fanned himself. He had a tendency toward being stout, and felt the heat. The girl, meanwhile, crossed the court and jangled the bell; she waited two—three—minutes, then she pulled the rope again.

‘Gustavo! Oh, Gustavo!’

The bell might have been rung by any one—the fisherman, the omnibus-driver, Suor Celestina from the convent asking her everlasting alms—and Gustavo took his time. But the voice was unmistakable; he waited only to throw a clean napkin over his arm before hurrying to answer.

‘Buon giorno, signorina! Good morning, signore. It is beautiful wea-thir, but warm. Già, it is warm.’

He bowed and smiled and rubbed his hands together. His moustaches, fairly bristling with good will, turned up in a half-circle until they caressed his nose on either side. He bustled about placing table and chairs, and recklessly dusting them with the clean napkin. The signorina laid her fluffy white parasol on one chair and seated herself on another, her profile turned to the summer-house. Gustavo hovered over them, awaiting   their pleasure, the genius itself of respectful devotion. It was Constance who gave the order—she, it might be noticed, gave most of the orders that were given in her vicinity. She framed it in English out of deference to Gustavo’s pride in his knowledge of the language.

‘A glass of vino santo for the signore and limonata for me. I wish to put the sugar in myself, the last time you mixed it, Gustavo, it was all sugar and no lemon. And bring a bowl of cracked ice—fino—fino—and some pine nut cakes if you are sure they are fresh.’

‘Sank you, signorina. Subitissimo!’

He was off across the court, his black coat-tails, his white napkin streaming behind, proclaiming to all the world that he was engaged on the Signorina Americana’s bidding; for persons of lesser note he still preserved a measure of dignity.

The young man in the summer-house had meanwhile dropped his cigarette upon the floor and noiselessly stepped on it. He had also—with the utmost caution lest the chair creak—shifted his position so that he might command the profile of the girl. The entrance to the summer house was fortunately on the other side, and in all likelihood they would not have occasion to look within. It was eavesdropping of course, but he had already been convicted of that yesterday, and in any case it was not such very bad eavesdropping. The   courtyard of the Hotel du Lac was public property; he had been there first, he was there by rights as a guest of the house; if anything, they were the interlopers. Besides, nobody talked secrets with a head waiter. His own long conversations with Gustavo were as open and innocent as the day; the signorina was perfectly welcome to listen to them as much as she chose.

She was sitting with her chin in her hand, eyeing the flying coat-tails of Gustavo, a touch of amusement in her face. Her father was eyeing her severely.

‘Constance, it is disgraceful!’

She laughed. Apparently she already knew or divined what it was that was disgraceful, but the accusation did not appear to bother her much. Mr. Wilder proceeded grumblingly.

‘It’s bad enough with those five deluded officers, but they walked into the trap with their eyes open and it’s their own affair. But look at Gustavo; he can scarcely carry a dish without breaking it when you are watching him. And Giuseppe—that confounded Farfalla with its yellow sails floats back and forth in front of the terrace till I am on the point of having it scuttled as a public nuisance; and those three washer-women and the post-office clerk and the boy who brings milk, and Luigi and—every man, woman and child in the village of Valedolmo!’

‘And my own dad as well?’

Mr. Wilder shook his head.

‘I came here at your instigation for rest and relaxation—to get rid of nervous worries, and here I find a big new worry waiting for me that I’d never thought of having before. What if my only daughter should take it in her head to marry one of these infernally good-looking Italian officers?’

Constance reached over and patted his arm.

‘Don’t let it bother you, Dad; I assure you I won’t do anything of the sort. I should think it my duty to learn the subjunctive mood, and that is impossible.’

Gustavo came hurrying back with a tray. He arranged the glasses, the ice, the sugar, the cakes, with hovering, elaborate obsequiousness. The signorina examined the ice doubtfully, then with approval.

‘It’s exactly right to-day, Gustavo! You got it too large the last time, you remember.’

She stirred in some sugar and tasted it tentatively, her head on one side. Gustavo hung upon her expression in an agony of apprehension; one would have thought it a matter for public mourning if the lemonade were not mixed exactly right. But apparently it was right—she nodded and smiled—and Gustavo’s expression assumed relief. Constance broke open a pine nut cake and settled herself for conversation.

‘Haven’t you any guests, Gustavo?’ Her eyes glanced over the empty courtyard. ‘I am afraid the hotel is not having a very prosperous season.’

‘Grazie, signorina. Zer never are many in summer; it is ze dead time, but still zay come and zay go. Seven arrive last night.’

‘Seven! That’s nice. What are they like?’

‘German mountain-climbers wif nails in zer shoes. Zey have gone to Riva on ze first boat.’

‘That’s too bad—then the hotel is empty?’

‘But no! Zer is an Italian signora wif two babies and a governess, and two English ladies and an American gentleman–’

‘An American gentleman?’ Her tone was languidly interested. ‘How long has he been here?’

‘Tree—four days.’

‘Indeed—what is he like?’

‘Nice—ver’ nice.’ (Gustavo might well say that; his pockets were lined with the American gentleman’s silver lire.) ‘He talk to me always. “Gustavo,” he say, “I am all alone; I wish to be ’mused. Come and talk Angleesh.” Yes, it is true; I have no time to finish my work; I spend whole day talking wif dis yong American gentleman. He is just a little–’ He touched his head significantly.

‘Really?’ She raised her eyes with an   air of awakened interest. ‘And how did he happen to come to Valedolmo?’

‘He come to meet his family, his sister and his—his aunt, who are going wif him to ze Tyrollo. But zay have not arrive. Zey are in Lucerne, he says, where zer is a lion dying, and zey wish to wait until he is dead; zen zey come.—Yes, it is true; he tell me zat.’ Gustavo tapped his head a second time.

The signorina glanced about apprehensively.

‘Is he safe, Gustavo—to be about?’

‘Si, signorina, sicuramente! He is just a little simple.’

Mr. Wilder chuckled.

‘Where is he, Gustavo? I think I’d like to make that young man’s acquaintance.’

‘I sink, signore, he is packing his trunk. He go away to-day.’

‘To-day, Gustavo?’ There was audible regret in Constance’s tone. ‘Why is he going?’

‘It is not possible for him to stand it, signorina. Valedolmo too dam slow.’

‘Gustavo! You mustn’t say that; it is very, very bad. Nice men don’t say it.’

Gustavo held his ground.

‘Si, signorina, zat yong American gentleman say it—dam slow, no divertimento.’

‘He’s just about right, Gustavo,’ Mr. Wilder broke in. ‘The next time a young   American gentleman blunders into the Hotel du Lac you send him around to me.’

‘Si, signore.’

Gustavo rolled his eyes toward the signorina; she continued to sip her lemonade.

‘I have told him yesterday an American family live at Villa Rosa; he say, “All right, I go call,” but—but I sink maybe you were not at home.’

‘Oh!’ The signorina raised her head in apparent enlightenment. ‘So that was the young man? Yes, to be sure, he came, but he said he was looking for Prince Sartorio’s villa. I am sorry you were away, father, you would have enjoyed him; his English was excellent.—Did he tell you he saw me, Gustavo?’

‘Si, signorina, he tell me.’

‘What did he say? Did he think I was nice?’

Gustavo looked embarrassed.

‘I—I no remember, signorina.’

She laughed and to his relief changed the subject.

‘Those English ladies who are staying here—what do they look like? Are they young?’

Gustavo delivered himself of an inimitable gesture which suggested that the English ladies had entered the bounds of that indefinite period when the subject of age must be politely waived.

‘They are tall, signorina, and of a thinness—you would not believe it possible.’

‘I see! And so the poor young man was bored?’

Gustavo bowed vaguely. He saw no connexion.

‘He was awfully good-looking,’ she added with a sigh. ‘I’m afraid I made a mistake. It would be rather fun, don’t you think, Dad, to have an entertaining young American gentleman about?’

‘Ump!’ he grunted. ‘I thought you were so immensely satisfied with the officers.’

‘Oh, I am,’ she agreed with a shrug which dismissed for ever the young American gentleman.

‘Well, Gustavo,’ she added in a business-like tone, ‘I will tell you why we called. The doctor says the Signor Papa is getting too fat. I don’t think he’s too fat, do you? He seems to me just comfortably chubby; but anyway, the doctor says he needs exercise, so we’re going to begin climbing mountains with nails in our shoes like the Germans. And we’re going to begin to-morrow because we’ve got two English people at the villa who adore mountains. Do you think you can find us a guide and some donkeys? We want a nice, gentle, lady-like donkey for my aunt, and another for the English lady, and a third to carry the things—and maybe me, if I get tired. Then we want a man who will twist their tails and make them go; and I am very particular about   the man. I want him to be picturesque—there’s no use being in Italy if you can’t have things picturesque, is there, Gustavo?’

‘Si, signorina,’ he bowed and resumed his attitude of strained attention.

‘He must have curly hair and black eyes and white teeth and a nice smile; I should like him to wear a red sash and earrings. He must be obliging and cheerful and deferential and speak good Italian—I won’t have a man who speaks only dialect. He must play the mandolin and sing Santa Lucia—I believe that’s all.’

‘And I suppose since he is to act as guide he must know the region?’ her father mildly suggested.

‘Oh, no, that’s immaterial; we can always ask our way.’

Mr. Wilder grunted, but offered no further suggestion.

‘We pay four lire a day and furnish his meals,’ she added munificently. ’And we shall begin with the castle on Monte Baldo; then when we get very proficient we’ll climb Monte Maggiore. Do you understand?’

‘Ze signorina desires tree donkeys and a driver at seven o’clock to-morrow morning to climb Monte Baldo?’

‘In brief, yes, but please remember the earrings.’

Meanwhile a commotion was going on behind them. The hotel omnibus had rumbled   into the courtyard. A fachino had dragged out a leather trunk, an English hat-box and a couple of valises and dumped them on the ground while he ran back for the paste pot and a pile of labels. The two under-waiters, the chambermaid and the boy who cleaned boots had drifted into the court. It was evident that the American gentleman’s departure was imminent.

The luggage was labelled and hoisted to the roof of the omnibus; they all drew up in a line with their eyes on the door; but still the young man did not come. Gustavo, over his shoulder, dispatched a waiter to hunt him up. The waiter returned breathless. The gentleman was nowhere. He had searched the entire house; there was not a trace. Gustavo sent the boot-boy flying down the arbour to search the garden; he was beginning to feel anxious. What if the gentleman in a sudden fit of melancholia had thrown himself into the lake? That would indeed be an unfortunate affair!

Constance reassured him, and at the same time she arose. It occurred to her suddenly that, since the young man was going, there was nothing to be gained by waiting, and he might think– She picked up her parasol and started for the gate, but Mr. Wilder hung back; he wanted to see the matter out.

‘Father,’ said she reproachfully, ‘it’s   embarrassing enough for him to fee all those people without our staying and watching him do it.’

‘I suppose it is,’ he acknowledged regretfully, as he resumed his hat and umbrella and palm-leaf fan.

She paused for a second in the gateway.

‘Addio, Gustavo,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Don’t forget the earrings.’

Gustavo bowed twice and turned back with a dazed air to direct the business in hand. The boot-boy, reappearing, shook his head. No, the gentleman was not to be found in the garden. The omnibus driver leaned from his seat and swore.

Corpo di Bacco! Did he think the boat would wait all day for the sake of one passenger? As it was, they were ten minutes late and would have to gallop every step of the way.

The turmoil of ejaculation and gesture was approaching a climax; when suddenly, who should come sauntering into the midst of it but the young American man himself! He paused to light a cigarette, then waved his hand aloft toward his leather belongings.

‘Take ’em down, Gustavo. Changed my mind; not going to-day—it’s too hot.’

Gustavo gasped.

‘But, signore, you have paid for your ticket.’

‘True, Gustavo, but there is no law   compelling me to use it. To tell the truth I find that I am fonder of Valedolmo than I had supposed. There is something satisfying about the peace and tranquillity of the place—one doesn’t realize it till the moment of parting comes. Do you think I can obtain a room for a—well, an indefinite period?’

Gustavo saw a dazzling vista of silver lire stretching into the future. With an all-inclusive gesture he placed the house, the lake, the surrounding mountains, at the disposal of the American.

‘You shall have what you wish, signore. At dis season ze Hotel du Lac–’

‘Is not crowded, and there are half a hundred rooms at my disposal? Very well, I will keep the one I have, which commands a very attractive view of a rose-coloured villa set in a grove of cypress trees.’

The others had waited in a state of suspension, dumbfounded at what was going on. But as soon as the young man dipped into his pocket and fished out a handful of silver, they broke into smiles; this at least was intelligible. The silver was distributed, the luggage was hoisted down, the omnibus was dismissed. The courtyard resumed its former quiet; just the American gentleman, Gustavo and the parrot were left.

Then suddenly a frightful suspicion dawned upon Gustavo—it was more than a suspicion; it was an absolute certainty   which in his excitement he had overlooked. From where had the American gentleman dropped? Not the sky, assuredly, and there was no place else possible, unless the door of the summer-house. Yes, he had been in the summer-house, and not sleeping either. An indefinable something about his manner informed Gustavo that he was privy to the entire conversation. Gustavo, a picture of guilty remorse, searched his memory for the words he had used. Why, oh why, had he not piled up adjectives? It was the opportunity of a lifetime, and he had wantonly thrown it away.

But—to his astonished relief—the young man appeared to be bearing no malice. He appeared, on the contrary, quite unusually cheerful as he sauntered, whistling, across the court and seated himself in the exact chair the signorina had occupied. He plunged his hand into his pocket suggestively—Gustavo had been the only one omitted in the distribution of silver—and drew forth a roll of bills. Having selected five crisp five-lire notes, he placed them under the sugar bowl, and watched his companion while he blew three meditative rings of smoke.

‘Gustavo,’ he inquired, ‘do you suppose you could find me some nice, gentle, lady-like donkeys, and a red sash and a pair of earrings?’

Gustavo’s fascinated gaze had been   fixed upon the sugar bowl and he had only half caught the words.

‘Scusi, signore, I no understand.’

‘Just sit down, Gustavo, it makes me nervous to see you standing all the time. I can’t be comfortable, you know, unless everybody else is comfortable. Now pay strict attention and see if you can grasp my meaning.’

Gustavo dubiously accepted the edge of the indicated chair; he wished to humour the signore’s mood, however incomprehensible that mood might be. For half an hour he listened with strained attention while the gentleman talked and toyed with the sugar bowl. Amazement, misgiving, amusement, daring, flashed in succession across his face; in the end he leaned forward with shining eyes.

‘Si, si,’ he whispered after a conspiratorial glance over his shoulder, ‘I will do it all; you may trust to me.’

The young man rose, removed the sugar bowl, and sauntered on toward the road. Gustavo pocketed the notes and gazed after him.

‘Dio mio,’ he murmured as he set about gathering up the glasses, ‘zese Americans!’

At the gate the young man paused to light another cigarette.

‘Addio, Gustavo,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘don’t forget the earrings!’

CHAPTER IV

The table was set on the terrace; breakfast was served and the company was gathered. Breakfast consisted of the usual caffè-latte, rolls and strained honey, and—since a journey was to the fore and something sustaining needed—a soft-boiled egg apiece. There were four persons present, though there should have been five. The two guests were an Englishman and his wife, whom the chances of travel had brought over night to Valedolmo.

Between them, presiding over the coffee machine, was Mr. Wilder’s sister, ‘Miss Hazel’—never ‘Miss Wilder’ except to the butcher and baker. It was the cross of her life, she had always affirmed, that her name was not Mary or Jane or Rebecca. ‘Hazel’ does well enough when one is eighteen and beautiful, but when one is fifty and no longer beautiful, it is little short of absurd. But if any one at fifty could carry such a name gracefully, it was Miss Hazel Wilder; her fifty years sat as jauntily as Constance’s twenty-two. This morning she was very business-like in her short skirt, belted jacket, and green felt Alpine hat with a feather in the side. No one would mistake her for a cyclist or a golfer or a motorist or anything in the world but an Alpine climber; whatever Miss Hazel was or was not, she was always game.

Across from Miss Hazel sat her brother in knickerbockers, his Alpine stock at his elbow and also his fan. Since his domicile in Italy, Mr. Wilder’s fan had assumed the nature of a symbol; he could no more be separated from it than St. Sebastian from his arrows or St. Laurence from his gridiron. At Mr. Wilder’s elbow was the empty chair where Constance should have been—she who had insisted on six as a proper breakfast hour, and had grudgingly consented to postpone it till half-past out of deference to her sleepy-headed elders. Her father had finished his egg and hers too, before she appeared, as nonchalant and smiling as if she were out the earliest of all.

‘I think you might have waited!’ was her greeting from the doorway.

She advanced to the table, saluted in military fashion, dropped a kiss on her father’s bald spot, and possessed herself of the empty chair. She too was clad in mountain-climbing costume, in so far as blouse and skirt and leather leggings went, but above her face there fluttered the fluffy white brim of a ruffled sun hat with a bunch of pink rosebuds set over one ear.

‘I am sorry not to wear my own Alpine hat, Aunt Hazel; I look so deliciously German in it, but I simply can’t afford to burn all the skin off my nose.’

‘You can’t make us believe that,’ said   her father. ‘The reason is, that Lieutenant di Ferara and Captain Coroloni are going with us to-day, and that this hat is more becoming than the other.’

‘It’s one reason,’ Constance agreed imperturbably, ‘but, as I say, I don’t wish to burn the skin off my nose, because that is unbecoming too. You are ungrateful, Dad,’ she added as she helped herself to honey with a liberal hand, ‘I invited them solely on your account because you like to hear them talk English. Have the donkeys come?’

‘The donkeys are at the back door nibbling the buds off the rose bushes.’

‘And the driver?’

‘Is sitting on the kitchen doorstep drinking coffee and smiling over the top of his cup at Elizabetta. There are two of him.’

‘Two! I only ordered one.’

‘One is the official driver and the other is a boy whom he has brought along to do the work.’

Constance eyed her father sharply. There was something at once guilty and triumphant about his expression.

‘What is it, Dad?’ she inquired sternly. ‘I suppose he has not got a sash and earrings.’

‘On the contrary, he has.’

‘Really? How clever of Gustavo! I hope,’ she added anxiously, ‘that he talks good Italian?’

‘I don’t know about his Italian, but he talks uncommonly good English.’

‘English!’ There was reproach, disgust, disillusionment, in her tone. ‘Not really, father?’

‘Yes, really and truly—almost as well as I do. He has lived in New York and he speaks English like a dream—real English—not the Gustavo—Lieutenant di Ferara kind. I can understand what he says.’

‘How simply horrible!’

‘Very convenient, I should say.’

‘If there’s anything I detest, it’s an Americanized Italian—and here in Valedolmo of all places, where you have a right to demand something unique and romantic and picturesque and real. It’s too bad of Gustavo! I shall never place any faith in his judgment again. You may talk English to the man if you like; I shall address him in nothing but Italian.’

As they rose from the table she suggested pessimistically, ‘Let’s go and look at the donkeys—I suppose they’ll be horrid, scraggly, knock-kneed little beasts.’

They turned out, however, to be unusually attractive, as donkeys go, and they were innocently engaged in nibbling, not rose leaves, but grass, under the tutelage of a barefoot boy. Constance patted their shaggy mouse-coloured noses, made the acquaintance of the boy, whose name was Beppo, and looked about for the   driver proper. He rose and bowed as she approached. His appearance was even more violently spectacular than she had ordered; Gustavo had given good measure.

He wore a loose white shirt—immaculately white—with a red silk handkerchief knotted about his throat, brown corduroy knee-breeches, and a red cotton sash with the hilt of a knife conspicuously protruding. His corduroy jacket was slung carelessly across his shoulders, his hat was cocked jauntily, with a red heron feather stuck in the band; last, perfect touch of all, in his ears—at his ears rather (a close examination revealed the thread)—two golden hoops flashed in the sunlight. His skin was dark—not too dark—just a good healthy out-door tan: his brows level and heavy, his gaze candour itself. He wore a tiny suggestion of a moustache which turned up at the corners (a suspicious examination of this, might have revealed the fact that it was touched up with burnt cork); there was no doubt but that he was a handsome fellow, and his attire suggested that he knew it.

Constance clasped her hands in an ecstasy of admiration.

‘He’s perfect!’ she cried. ‘Where on earth did Gustavo find him? Did you ever see anything so beautiful?’ she appealed to the others. ‘He looks like a brigand in opera bouffe.’

The donkey-man reddened visibly and fumbled with his hat.

‘My dear,’ her father warned, ‘he understands English.’

She continued to gaze with the open admiration one would bestow upon a picture or a view or a blue-ribbon horse. The man flashed her a momentary glance from a pair of searching grey eyes, then dropped his gaze humbly to the ground.

‘Buon giorno,’ he said in glib Italian.

Constance studied him more intently. There was something elusively familiar about his expression; she was sure she had seen him before.

‘Buon giorno,’ she replied in Italian. ‘You have lived in the United States?’

‘Si, signorina.’

‘What is your name?’

‘I spik Angleesh,’ he observed.

‘I don’t care if you do speak English; I prefer Italian—what is your name?’ She repeated the question in Italian.

‘Si, signorina,’ he ventured again. An anxious look had crept to his face and he hastily turned away and commenced carrying parcels from the kitchen. Constance looked after him, puzzled and suspicious. The one insult which she could not brook was for an Italian to fail to understand her when she talked Italian. As he returned and knelt to tighten the strap of a hamper, she caught sight of the thread that held his earring. She looked a   second longer, and a sudden smile of illumination flashed to her face. She suppressed it quickly and turned away.

‘He seems rather slow about understanding,’ she remarked to the others, ‘but I dare say he’ll do.’

‘The poor fellow is embarrassed,’ apologized her father. ‘His name is Tony,’ he added—even he had understood that much Italian.

‘Was there ever an Italian who had been in America whose name was not Tony? Why couldn’t he have been Angelico or Felice or Pasquale or something decently picturesque?’

‘My dear,’ Miss Hazel objected, ‘I think you are hypercritical. The man is scarcely to blame for his name.’

‘I suppose not,’ she agreed, ‘though I should have included that in my order.’

Further discussion was precluded by the appearance of a station-carriage which turned in at the gate and stopped before them. Two officers descended and saluted. In summer uniforms of white linen with gold shoulder-straps, and shining top-boots, they rivalled the donkey-man in decorativeness. Constance received them with flattering acclaim, while she noted from the corner of her eye the effect upon Tony. He had not counted upon this addition to the party, and was as scowling as she could have wished. While the officers were engaged   in making their bow to the others, Constance casually reapproached the donkeys. Tony feigned immersion in the business of strapping hampers; he had no wish to be drawn into any Italian tête-à-tête. But to his relief she addressed him this time in English.

‘Are these donkeys used to mountain-climbing?’

‘But yes, signorina! Sicuramente. Zay are ver’ strong, ver’ good. Zat donk’, signorina, he go all day and never one little stumble.’

His English, she noted with amused appreciation, was an exact copy of Gustavo’s; he had learned his lesson well. But she allowed not the slightest recognition of the fact to appear in her face.

‘And what are their names?’ she inquired.

‘Dis is Fidilini, signorina, and zat one wif ze white nose is Macaroni, and zat ovver is Cristoforo Colombo.’

Elizabetta appeared in the doorway with two rush-covered flasks, and Tony hurried forward to receive them. There was a complaisant set to his shoulders as he strode off, Constance noted delightedly; he was felicitating himself upon the ease with which he had fooled her. Well! she would give him cause before the day was over for other than felicitations. She stifled a laugh of prophetic triumph and sauntered over to Beppo.

‘When Tony is engaged as a guide do you always go with him?’

‘Not always, signorina, but Carlo has wished me to go to-day to look after the donkeys.’

‘And who is Carlo?’

‘He is the guide who owns them.’

Beppo looked momentarily guilty; the answer had slipped out before he thought.

‘Oh, indeed! But if Tony is a guide why doesn’t he have donkeys of his own?’

‘He used to, but one unfortunately fell into the lake and got drowned, and the other died of a sickness.’

He put forth this preposterous statement with a glance as grave and innocent as that of a little cherub.

‘Is Tony a good guide?’

‘But yes, of the best!’

There was growing anxiety in Beppo’s tone. He divined suspicion behind these persistent inquiries, and he knew that in case Tony were dismissed, his own munificent pay would stop.

‘Do you understand any English?’ she suddenly asked.

He modestly repudiated any great knowledge. ‘A word here, a word there; I learn it in school.’

‘I see!’ She paused for a moment and then inquired casually, ‘Have you known Tony long?’

‘Si, signorina.’

‘How long?’

Beppo considered. Some one, clearly, must vouch for the man’s respectability. This was not in the lesson that had been taught him, but he determined to branch out for himself.

‘He is my father, signorina.’

‘Really! He looks young to be your father—have you any brothers and sisters, Beppo?’

‘I have four brothers, signorina, and five sisters.’ He fell back upon the truth with relief.

‘Davvero!’

The signorina smiled upon him, a smile of such heavenly sweetness that he instantly joined the already crowded ranks of her admirers. She drew from her pocket a handful of coppers and dropped them into his grimy little palm.

‘Here, Beppo, are some soldi for the brothers and sisters. I hope that you will be good and obedient and always tell me the truth.’