She snorted. “I am sorry I cannot receive you,” she said to the girl. “I am not accustomed to have young women in my house. No.”
She waddled to the door and Olive followed her meekly, but she could not keep her lips from smiling. “I do not blame you,” she said as she passed out on to the landing. “Your son is charming.”
The woman looked at her more kindly now that she was going. “He is beautiful,” she said, with pride. “Some day he will be great. Ach! You should hear him play!”
Olive laughed. “You would not let me.”
She could not take this rebuff seriously, but as she trudged the streets in the thin cold rain that had fallen persistently all that morning her sense of humour was blunted by discomfort. The long dark, stone-paved hall that was the restaurant of the Aquila Verde seemed cold and cheerless. At noon it was always full of hungry men devouring macaroni and vitello alla Milanese, and the steam of hot food and the sound of masticating jaws greeted Olive as she came in and took her place at a little table near the stove.
The young waiter, Angelo, brought her a cup of coffee after the cheese and celery. “It gives courage,” he said. “And I see you need that to-day, signorina.”
CHAPTER VII
Olive saw the padrone of the Aquila Verde that night before she went to her room and told him she was leaving.