“There were several; thou referest to the Celtico.”
“What a kind man was that captain—he spoke French like a Frenchman and the young biondino who kept the lists; tanto simpatico!”
It was pleasant to hear of the “Celtic’s” good work in this very foreign house, of Captain Huse and of Paymaster Jordan ycleped il biondino!
“Did I tell thee,” said Arturo, addressing my hostess—he was too shy to speak directly to me—“that the sailors of the American fleet made up a purse of sixteen thousand francs for the families of our mariners smitten by the disaster? It is a fact of piety and comradeship not to be forgotten.”
“Thou sayest well. Hast thou not a glass of wine, a bit of cake to offer?”
Poor Arturo, thankful for any excuse to escape, lurched out of the room followed by the lupetto. He was one of those painfully shy men whose greatest intimacies are with animals, as dumb as they themselves would like to be.
“Your husband—” I began.
“No, no, my son!” she interrupted, laughing till the tears came to her eyes.
“My son, the eldest; not a good son; he has married against my wishes. Children are nothing but vexations; to be happy one must be childless!”
I tried to change the subject by asking Arturo’s profession.