“You know a lot of languages, Carlo,” Patty said, “and better than that, you can be tactful in all of them.”
“Ah, I am a Florentine,” said Carlo, bowing, with native pride in his birth that he scorned to admit in his acquirements. “But, ladies, here comes a so good opportunity. A bambino—a baby—is arriving for baptism. We will go in and observe the ceremony.”
“We will, indeed,” said Patty. “I’ve always just missed it, before. Come on, Flo.”
Inside the Baptistery they went and found a priest and a few officials gathered around the font.
With great interest they watched the baptism of the tiny three-days’ old infant. The little one was carried by its father, and accompanied by a nurse and an Italian lady, presumably an aunt or other relative. The child was robed in a grand conglomeration of laces, ribbons, jewelry, and swathed in voluminous outer wrappings.
After the short ceremonial was over, the girls lingered to look at the mosaics in the choir, a study in which Patty was taking a great interest.
As they stood there Patty heard a voice over her shoulder, addressing her in Italian. She turned, and saw the Italian soldier, Signor Grimaldi, accompanied by his friend Balotti.
They had not seen these men since the meeting on the train, and they had wondered what had become of them.
“Oh, Signor, how do you do?” cried Patty, quite forgetting that he couldn’t understand her.
But he understood the smile and gesture and shook hands cordially with Patty and Flo, and then presented Signor Balotti.