“It is a pity,” he observed casually, “zat you are not acquaint wif ze Signor Americano who lives in Villa Rosa. He also finds Valedolmo undiverting. He comes—but often—to talk wif me. He has fear of forgetting how to spik Angleesh, he says.”
The young man opened his eyes.
“What are you talking about—a Signor Americano here in Valedolmo?”
“Sicuramente, in zat rose-color villa wif ze cypress trees and ze terrazzo on ze lake. His daughter, la Signorina Costantina, she live wif him—ver’ yong, ver’ beautiful—” Gustavo rolled his eyes and clasped his hands—“beautiful like ze angels in Paradise—and she spik Italia like I spik Angleesh.”
Jerymn Hilliard Jr. unfolded his arms and sat up alertly.
“You mean to tell me that you had an American family up your sleeve all this time and never said a word about it?” His tone was stern.
“Scusi, signore, I have not known zat you have ze plaisir of zer acquaintance.”
“The pleasure of their acquaintance! Good heavens, Gustavo, when one ship-wrecked man meets another ship-wrecked man on a desert island must they be introduced before they can speak?”
“Si, signore.”
“And why, may I ask, should an intelligent American family be living in Valedolmo?”