‘Buon giorno,’ he said in glib Italian.
Constance studied him more intently. There was something elusively familiar about his expression; she was sure she had seen him before.
‘Buon giorno,’ she replied in Italian. ‘You have lived in the United States?’
‘Si, signorina.’
‘What is your name?’
‘I spik Angleesh,’ he observed.
‘I don’t care if you do speak English; I prefer Italian—what is your name?’ She repeated the question in Italian.
‘Si, signorina,’ he ventured again. An anxious look had crept to his face and he hastily turned away and commenced carrying parcels from the kitchen. Constance looked after him, puzzled and suspicious. The one insult which she could not brook was for an Italian to fail to understand her when she talked Italian. As he returned and knelt to tighten the strap of a hamper, she caught sight of the thread that held his earring. She looked a second longer, and a sudden smile of illumination flashed to her face. She suppressed it quickly and turned away.
‘He seems rather slow about understanding,’ she remarked to the others, ‘but I dare say he’ll do.’
‘The poor fellow is embarrassed,’ apologized her father. ‘His name is Tony,’ he added—even he had understood that much Italian.