"I hope 'it' is not a very serious 'it,' madam," I replied.
"It may be. Does your head ever trouble you?"
"My head ever trouble me?" I gasped, taken aback.
"Yes, your head, sir. When you fell down those stairs you received a very serious wound on the head. It gaped open so that I could have laid a finger in the hole. Are you sure it doesn't trouble you, Oliver? Blows on the head are dreadful things, you know."
"Look at it," said I, popping my head down, and very glad of the chance.
Her beautiful fingers parted my thick, short, bristly hair and found the spot.
"There's nothing wrong with the skull, is there?" I asked.
"No," very doubtfully. "It's healed splendidly."
"Now, madam," said I, "talk to me in Italian!"
It was the first time, by chance, that I had thought of it.