“Your questions are getting too personal, Tony.”
He folded his arms and sighed.
“Will you deliver my message?”
“Si, signorina, wif pleasure.” There was not a trace of curiosity in his expression, nothing beyond a deferential desire to serve.
“Tell him, Tony, that Miss Wilder will be at home tomorrow afternoon at tea time; if he will come by the gate and present a card she will be most pleased to see him. She wishes him to meet an American friend, a Miss Hilliard, who has just arrived at the hotel this afternoon.”
She watched him sharply; his expression did not alter by a shade. He repeated the message and then added as if by the merest chance:
“Ze yong American man, signorina—you know his name?”
“Yes, I know his name.” This time for the fraction of a second she surprised a look. “His name—” she hesitated tantalizingly—“is Signor Abraham Lincoln.”
“Signor Ab-ra-ham Lin-coln.” He repeated it after her as if committing it to memory. They gazed at each other soberly a moment; then both laughed and looked away.
Luigi had appeared in the doorway. Seeing no one more important than Tony about, he found no reason for delaying the announcement of dinner.