The young man opened his eyes.
‘What are you talking about—a Signor Americano here in Valedolmo?’
‘Sicuramente, in zat rose-colour villa wif ze cypress trees and ze terrazzo on ze lake. His daughter, la Signorina Costantina, she live wif him—ver’ young, 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 shipwrecked man meets another shipwrecked 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?’
‘I do not know, signore. I have heard ze Signor Papa’s healf was no good, and ze doctors in Americk’ zay say to heem, “You need change, to breave ze beautiful climate of Italia.” And he say, “All right, I go to Valedolmo.” It is small, signore, but ver’ famosa. Oh, yes, molto famosa. In ze autumn and ze spring foreigners come from all ze world—Angleesh, French, German—tutti! Ze Hotel du Lac is full. Every day we turn peoples away.’