Nancy caught her breath.
“You’re joking!”
“I’m not indeed. I was never more serious.”
“But why didn’t he say something to me?”
“Gambone is a Neapolitan. Gambone is a realist. About women he has no illusions. He thinks that the more he beats them the better they’ll be. He only told me all this after exacting a promise not to repeat it to you for fear you would be spoilt and give up working as well as you’re working at present. I reproached him with not having looked after you socially, and he nearly jumped through the ceiling of his apartment.”
“‘She is here to work,’ he shouted. ‘She is not here to amuse herself.’ ‘But you might at least have managed to find her an escort for the opera.’ And I told him that you had not yet visited San Carlo. ‘Meno male!’ he squealed. I presume your Italian has at least got as far as knowing that meno male means the less harm done. ‘Meno male that she has not filled her head with other people’s singing. She has enough to do with her practising, enough to do to learn how to speak and pronounce the only civilised tongue that exists for a singer.’ I told him that you had been lonely, and what do you think he replied? ‘If she’s lonely, let her cultivate carnations. Garofani!’ he yelled at the top of his voice. ‘Believe me, my good sir, carnations are a thousand times more worth while than men and ten thousand times more worth while than women.’ ‘Even good contraltos?’ I laughed. ‘Sicuro! Or sopranos, either,’ the old villain chuckled.”
“Well, in some moods I would agree with him,” Nancy said.
“Anyway, whatever the old cynic may say, he has a profound belief in your future. When he was ushering me out of his apartment ...”
“Oh, he ushered you out?” Nancy laughed. “He always pushes me out.”
“He would! But listen, he took my arm and said, with a twinkle in his bright black eyes, ‘So you heard her sing and knew she had a voice?’ I bowed. ‘Siete un conoscente, caro. Felicitazioni.’”