‘Signorina!’ he said reproachfully.
‘How did that name get there?’
‘He write it heemself!’
‘Yes, I dare say he did—but it doesn’t happen to be his name. Oh, I’m not blind; I can see plainly enough that he has scratched out his own name underneath.’
Gustavo leaned forward and affected to examine the page. ‘It was a li’l’ blot, signorina; he scratch heem out.’
‘Gustavo!’ Her tone was despairing. ‘Are you incapable of telling the truth? That young man’s name is no more Abraham Lincoln than Victor Emmanuel II. When did he write that, and why?’
Gustavo’s eyes were on the lira; he broke down and told the truth.
‘Yesterday night, signorina. He say, “Ze next time zat Signorina Americana who is beautiful as ze angels come to zis hotel she look in ze raygeester, an’ I haf it feex ready.”’
‘Oh, he said that, did he?’
‘Si, signorina.’