“He says he is an Italian?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“I say he is a Frenchman,” said Christian, suddenly turning towards her. “Italians do not talk English as he talks it.”
She looked puzzled.
“Do you know him?” she asked.
“No; not yet. I know his face. I have seen it or a photograph of it somewhere, and at some time. I cannot tell when or where yet, but it will come to me.”
“When it does come,” said Hilda, with a smile, “you will find that it is some one else. I can assure you Signor Bruno is an Italian, and beyond that he is the nicest old gentleman imaginable.”
“Well,” replied Christian. “In the meantime I vote that we do not trouble ourselves about him.”
The subject was dropped, and not again referred to until after they had reached home, when Hilda informed her mother that Signor Bruno had returned.
“Oh, indeed,” was the reply. “I am very glad. You must ask him to dinner to-morrow evening. Is he not a nice old man, Christian?”