‘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 candour.
‘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?’
‘We go live in Amerik’ when I li’l boy.’
‘And you never learned Italian? I should think your mother would have taught it to you.’
He imitated Beppo’s gestures.
‘A word here, a word there. We spik Magyar at home.’
‘Talk a little Magyar, Tony. I should like to hear it.’