“Bravo!” he said three times over, each time more satisfied than the other. Then he rose to a “Bravissimo,” with a smile that lighted up his olive face. “It would have made me pleasure to be of use to you, Ser Isaack mio. I would have responded, I would have taken it all upon me—what you call caution. But you are a true English, like the Vice-Consul himself, and it is just that you should understand each other. I am not disappointed—I am happy, very much happy that you have not any need of me,” little Paolo said, smiling, but with tears in his eyes.
CHAPTER V.
PAOLO.
PAOLO came back from his labours in the evening, very curious to know all about Harry’s interview with the Consul, and the origin and the result of the acquaintance between them. But Harry was prudent. He was prudent without any motive, from personal pride, rather than from any consideration for the credit of Miss Bonamy, which he did not think to be in the least involved. The women with whom Harry was acquainted were not of a kind who would have been afraid to go anywhere in the evening, and it did not occur to him that the reputation, even of a girl, in Italy would be jeopardized by such an innocent benevolence as that of going to visit a sick neighbour at night. Therefore it was simply pride and English reserve, not any notion of prudence on Rita’s account, that kept him silent on the subject. Paolo had a very different conception of the affair. He was very anxious to find out what had been the immediate effect upon Harry’s mind of the visit to the Consul’s house.
“There is a—young ladi there,” he said, watching Harry’s face. “You see perhaps, yes? a young ladi, the daughter of the Signor.”
“Oh, yes, I saw Miss Bonamy,” Harry said.
“And you nevare—see her before?” This Paolo asked with a gleam of mischief in his dark eyes, and the air of a man who knew a great deal more than he said.
“Oh yes, I have met her before,” said Harry lightly. “They were quite old friends. I did not in the least expect to meet people so like old friends here.”
Paolo was bewildered by this speech, and did not know what to think.
“Ah,” he said in a tone of disappointment. “You know them in your country? what you call at ’ome? But,” he added with a little triumph, “there you could not meet Signorina Rita, because she is never to go to England; her mother die in England, her mother was the daughter of an English and Italian, like me for example; but she die in England when she go, all young, when the Signorina was a bébé. The Signor Vice-Consul was mad—Si! mad, there is no other word. It was a long time that it was thought he die too—but no, he live, he go on living; but the Signorina Rita never go to England, that is finished, that is fixed, nothing will change it. It could not be that you meet her there.”
“Do you know Miss Bonamy very well,” said Harry with a little offence, “that you call her by her Christian name?”