"I do indeed—I do, Excellency. Ah, if the Signorina were married, we would not care!"
"Married! But she looks so high!"
"Alas! not now—not here!"
Randal sighed heavily. Jackeymo's eyes sparkled. He thought he had detected a new motive for Randal's interest—a motive to an Italian the most natural, the most laudable of all.
"Find the house, Signior—write to the Padrone. He shall come. I'll talk to him. I can manage him. Holy San Giacomo, bestir thyself now—'tis long since I troubled thee!"
Jackeymo strode off through the fading trees, smiling and muttering as he went.
The first dinner-bell rang, and, on entering the drawing-room, Randal found Parson Dale and his wife, who had been invited in haste to meet the unexpected visitor.
The preliminary greetings over, Mr Dale took the opportunity afforded by the Squire's absence to inquire after the health of Mr Egerton.
"He is always well," said Randal. "I believe he is made of iron."
"His heart is of gold," said the Parson.