She heard of Gaetano, and sent him a message to come to her at the hotel.
Gaetano collected what he had carved during the last few days and took them with him to Miss Tottenham. She was much pleased with his little images, and wished to buy them all.
But the rich Englishwoman’s rooms were like the lumber-rooms of a museum. They were filled with every conceivable thing, and there was confusion and disorder everywhere. Here stood half-empty trunks; there hung cloaks and hats; here lay paintings and engravings; there were guide-books, railway time-tables, tea-sets, and alcohol lamps; elsewhere halberds, prayer-books, mandolins, and escutcheons.
And that opened Gaetano’s eyes. He flushed suddenly, bit his lips, and began to repack his images.
He had caught sight of an image of the Christchild. It was the outcast, who was standing there in the midst of all the disorder, with his wretched crown on his head and brass shoes on his feet. The color was worn off his face; the rings and ornaments hanging on him were tarnished, and his dress was yellowed with age.
When Gaetano saw that, he would not sell his images to Miss Tottenham; he meant simply to go his way.
When she asked him what was the matter with him he stormed at her, and scolded her.
Did she know that many of the things she had about her were sacred?
Did she know, or did she not know, that that was the holy Christchild himself? And she had let him lose three fingers on one hand, and let the jewels fall out of his crown, and let him lie dirty, and tarnished, and dishonored! And if she had so treated the image of God’s own son, how would she let everything else fare? He would not sell anything to her.
When Gaetano burst out at her in that way Miss Tottenham was enraptured, enchanted.