“Si, signorina, I spik my own language.”
“Would you mind my asking what that language is?”
He indulged in a moment’s deliberation. Italian was clearly out of the question, and French she doubtless knew better than he—he deplored this polyglot education girls were receiving nowadays.
He had it! He would be Hungarian. His sole fellow guest in the hotel at Verona the week before had been a Hungarian nobleman, who had informed him that the Magyar language was one of the most difficult on the face of the globe. There was at least little likelihood that she was acquainted with that.
“My own language, signorina, is Magyar.”
“Magyar?” She was clearly taken by surprise.
“Si, signorina, I am Hungarian; I was born in Budapest.” He met her wide-opened eyes with a look of innocent candor.
“Really!” She beamed upon him delightedly; he was playing up even better than she had hoped. “But if you are Hungarian, what are you doing here in Italy, and how does it happen that your name is Antonio?”
“My movver was Italian. She name me Antonio after ze blessed Saint Anthony of Padua. If you lose anysing, signorina, and you say a prayer to Saint Anthony every day for nine days, on ze morning of ze tenth you will find it again.”
“That is very interesting,” she said politely. “How do you come to know English so well, Tony?”