“Who stopped the horses?” he asked. “A man in a white shirt.”
“It was Tomaso of the Mill,” answered the widow, who would have spoken sooner if she had had her breath. “He washes his own,” she added, anxious to say a good word for a neighbour.
Tomaso should, of course, have come forward and bowed. But Tomaso's manners were not of a showy description. He was helping the driver to repair the reins, and paused at this moment to remove the perspiration from his forehead with two fingers, which he subsequently wiped on the seam of his trousers.
“He!” cried the fat man sitting on the wall.
One could see that he was a business man; for he had the curt manner of the counting-house.
“He, Tomaso!” added the widow Navarro, in a shrill voice.
And Tomaso came slowly forward.
“Your name?” said the man of business.
“Tomaso.”
“Tomaso what?”