“Si, signorina. Sank you.”
She let the conversation drop, and Tony, after an interval of silence, fell to humming Santa Lucia in a very presentable baritone. The tune, Constance noted, was true enough, but the words were far astray.
“That’s a very pretty song, Tony, but you don’t appear to know it.”
“I no understand Italian, signorina. I just learn ze tune because Costantina like it.”
“You do everything that Costantina wishes?”
“Everysing! But if you could see her you would not wonder. She has hair brown and gold, and her eyes, signorina, are sometimes gray and sometimes black, and her laugh sounds like—”
“Oh, yes, I know; you told me all that before.”
“When she goes out to work in ze morning, signorina, wif the sunlight shining on her hair, and a smile on her lips, and a basket of clothes on her head—Ah, zen she is beautiful!”
“When are you going to be married?”
“I do not know, signorina. I have not asked her yet.”