Madame Oriano, become an old lady since her accident, smiled grimly.
“Peccato che Nostro Padre non ha pensato per mie povere gambe!” she muttered.
“What did you say?” Caleb asked timidly. He could never quite rid his mind of the fancy that the Italian language had a dangerous magic, an abracadabral potency which might land him in Hell by merely listening to it.
“I say it issa damn pity He does not putta His arms around my legs. Dat is what I say, Caleb.”
“He knows best what is good for us,” Caleb gurgled, turning up his eyes to the ceiling.
“Può essere,” the old lady murmured. “Perraps He do.”
“But what I’ve really come to talk about,” Caleb went on, “is the future of the business. Your presence, of course, will be sadly missed; but you’ll be glad to hear that I have managed to fulfil all our engagements up to date, though naturally with such a terrible loss of material the profits will be small—dreadfully small.”
No doubt Caleb was right, and even what profit there was he probably put in his iron box which had comfortably survived the destruction of the factory.
“I don’ta aspect no profit,” said Madame Oriano.
“But I have been turning things over in my mind,” Caleb pressed, “and I hope very much that you will be pleased with the result of my—er—turnings. Yes, I’m hoping that very much indeed.” Caleb took a deep gulp before he went on, staring away out across the chimney-stacks to escape the old lady’s arched eyebrows.