“No, no,” cried Paolo. “No, no—ah! pardon, it must not be one time in the Signorina’s life. She must return—she must return! There are impressions, made in a moment—which will nevare, nevare be effaced——”
Paolo was carried out of himself; he leaned across the table, almost kneeling at Liddy’s feet, and with the most passionate expression in his large liquid Italian eyes. Lydia on her side looked at the little man with the sublimest composure. She elevated her eyebrows the least in the world in mild surprise, and a passing wonder crossed her mind, immediately checked by the reflection that these were “Italian ways.” But Paolo’s rapt looks attracted the attention of others, if not of her to whom they were addressed. Two champions stepped forth immediately to the rescue. On one side Harry, hasty and disposed to be a little peremptory with his friend, and on the other Lionel, anxious and alarmed, thinking of course that any rival might come in at the last moment and “cut him out.”
“Paolo,” said Harry, “I wish you’d look after that gymnastic man for the children—the man you told me about. Ralph is coming back to-morrow; he wants exercise when he’s in town.”
“Ralph?” said Lydia, looking up, and once more meeting a look which bewildered her. Harry’s brow was a little clouded, but his eyes had the same tender appeal in them, the same solicitude, as if he wanted her to understand him. What did he want her to understand? and here was another familiar name.
“Yes,” he said, but a little uneasily; “it is an English name. We are divided a little in our family. The next is Giovanna, after an aunt—of my wife’s.”
“But that has an English form, too,” said Lionel. “Joan.”
A spark seemed to flash out of the eyes of this strange Mr. Oliver. He meant something. What did he mean? Lydia seemed to herself to be groping after him as if he had led her into a dark passage with a doubtful outlet, yet one that showed faintly far off. Isaac or not, he must be somebody who knew about him, who was conscious of some connection. And to see him standing there before her, the idea that he belonged to old Isaac Oliver seemed too absurd to be entertained. How foolish she had been to say anything about it; how unkind and impertinent to try to vex him by producing that ghost of an old country servant! But then how was it that this stranger knew she was speaking of an old peasant, a man of a different species? He knew all about him, she was convinced. Old Isaac meant to him what it meant to her. Here again Liddy got entirely confused in the darkness, and groped and felt that she must be on the edge of finding out all about it, but for the moment knew nothing, and had not even begun to suspect any new turn which the confusion might yet take.
“Names seem very much the same in all languages,” said Harry; “the contractions are different. In England we take the first half of the name, in Italy the last. My wife’s name is Rita; one little girl is Madge; but they are the same name—Margaret. And you’ve only to stick on a vowel, and an English name becomes prime Italian. There’s yours, for instance, Paolo; in English you would be Paul.”
“That is true,” said Paolo, dissembling, with a broad smile of affection, the sensations produced by the slap upon his shoulders which Harry was in the habit of administering, and which he was too polite, too devoted, to complain of. Paolo had a keen pang of disappointment too to have been thus interrupted while he felt he was making such progress with the beautiful young Englishwoman; but he was too sweet-tempered to resent it. He winced under the blow, but he smiled all the same. “That is true,” he said; “but, amico mio, if you could but learn what it is to pronounce two vowels in the Italian! Mees Joscelyn must know that my friend Oliver, he is in Italia for ten years, and still he cannot do justice to two vowels. Will the Signorina make me the pleasure to pronounce my name?—Paolo. Pao-lo, broad, like this—ow. He will never catch it, he is so true an Englishman; but Mees Joscelyn will say it—ah, perfectly!” cried Paolo, clapping his hands together, and once more throwing himself into that adoring attitude; “thanks a thousand times; that is to make music of my poor little name.”
At this both the Englishmen made a step forward, and stood tall and frowning like sentinels on either side of her, glooming down upon the little Italian, thrown forward almost upon his knees, with his clasped hands half way over the table, and rapture in his big, beautiful eyes. The scene roused Lydia in spite of herself. She was only a girl after all, and this conflict of emotion around her, the demonstrative adoration on one side, the furious defence on the other, which was quite as great a compliment, amused her, and gave her a little thrill of pleasure. Both Harry and Lionel, however, were much disgusted to perceive that, instead of being indignant and offended by Paolo’s demonstration, she was at the least amused, and perhaps pleased. This made them more angry than ever.