Paolo sighed, but obeyed. He repeated the sentiment in a superior tone to Antonio, who was anxiously serving them with Cigare Scelte, arranged in different kinds upon a wooden tray. “A hot theatre, Antonio mio! one does not go there in a so warm evening. That goes well with the winter, when it is cold; but in summer, we young have need of moche air and the great world to keep us comfort-able. When you know more of real English you will learn what they love.”
Antonio accepted this decision of his superiors with much respect, and laid it up in his memory, to be produced on his own account when it might accord with his pretensions as an Anglomane and person of high sentiment to produce it. But in the meantime he could not but launch a little criticism to the others who overheard this dignified rebuke. “That little Paolino,” he said, as they went out, “to give himself the air of a rich Inglese! He is neither one thing nor another. He is no more than an abozzo—a sketch of an Inglese,” Antonio cried. He had been in an artist’s studio in his day. “Me, I understand them, al fondo,” he added, beating his breast.
Little Paolo had no notion that he was being called an abozzo. He sallied forth, lighting his cigar, thrusting his arm through Harry’s with the greatest delight and pride.
Next day, at the hour appointed, Harry presented himself at the Vice-Consul’s office, and was received with the same cordiality. Mr. Bonamy had “made inquiries,” but, as nobody in Leghorn knew anything about Harry, there was not much information to be procured. Neither did the captain of the steamer in which he had arrived know anything about him except that he was a passenger in the second cabin; although he looked quite superior to the second cabin. “I set him down as somebody’s son in disgrace with his family,” the captain said. This chimed in sufficiently well with Mr. Bonamy’s observations. He met Harry after the first consultation with a grave face. “You know I know nothing about you, Mr. Oliver,” he said, “except—and that is not much—what you have chosen to tell me.”
“That is quite true, Sir,” said Harry, growing serious too, and feeling his heart sink, “and I have no right to expect you to take my word even for that.”
“Therefore,” said the Vice-Consul, “(for you should never interrupt a man in the middle of a sentence), I have the more claim upon you to treat me in an honourable way. If you had come with all your papers, as they say in this country, I should not have had the same right to put you on parole, as it were. If you know no reason why I shouldn’t take you into my office, and trust you with the Queen’s affairs, I mean to do so. But if there is anything that would make you a discredit to Her Majesty’s Service——”
“There is nothing, Sir,” said Harry, standing up. His face flushed, his nostril dilated, an impulse of almost fierce self-justification came upon him; but fortunately for him he was not used to defending himself, and he could not say another word.
“Then that is enough,” said the Vice-Consul. “I take you on your own parole.”
They were both silent for a minute or two after. It was not like a common engagement. Harry’s heart was in his throat. What with surprise at this extraordinary good fortune, and the emotion called forth by a confidence in him which he could not help feeling to be as extraordinary, he was quite beyond his own control. If he had said anything he would have “made a fool of himself,” so he said nothing, but sat still, almost disposed, like Paolo, to be tearful, which was the most dreadful catastrophe he could think of. The good Vice-Consul was a little affected too.
“But I don’t know a word of the language,” at last Harry said.