“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. Someone, 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.
