"That isn't half. She feeds regularly two children who live a little below here, on the way down to the valley. Partly she robs me to do it, after the easy Italian fashion; but she also robs herself—I have had proof of that. She almost always has some forlorn object, varying anywhere from a lame chicken to a blind man, stowed away in a corner of the court or the kitchen, where she can see to and comfort it. And every Friday, when the regular beggars of Tre Ponti—the authorized humbugs—make the round of the villas and poderes on this side of the valley, invariably she has saved something for each one of them."
"She is extraordinarily handsome. With her full throat, her large, soft eyes, and that classic head and hair, she looks like a Madonna of one of the old painters. I have never seen a more kindly and beautiful smile."
"It's well enough. But the great thing is that she is perfect as a servant. What she has to do is done without a fault."
"And she is so placid and sweet-tempered, too, as well as skilful," Gray went on. "She's a regular marvel!"
"She's a regular Tuscan!"
"Didn't I tell you that you don't half appreciate the beautiful natures of these people? As to this particular girl—come back to America, and see what we have to put up with! A waitress like that, over there, would be worth her weight in silver—if not gold."
"A what?" asked Dennison.
"A waitress; that's what we call 'em now; we've given up 'help.' Is she married to your cook?"
"Oh no; Peppino is nearly sixty. She is only twenty-five, though she looks thirty. She is a widow, and she is thinking of taking another husband before long. Have you noticed a young fellow working in the vineyard just under your windows?"
"I have noticed some one loafing there."