“It is nearly to pieces now,” Armstrong replied, complacently. “I will wait until it is cooler before I set it up again.”
True to his word, Armstrong began work on the restoration early next morning, but the heat of the day found him still at his labors and in no cheerful frame of mind. Uncle Peabody’s philosophical suggestions had proved unacceptable some hours before. Helen’s remark that she did not believe the three extra pieces Jack held despairingly in his hand had come from that particular machine at all brought forth such a withering expression of pitying contempt that she flew back to the house in alarm. Even the servants found that the opposite side of the villa demanded their especial care. A truce was declared for the colazione, but Armstrong devoured his repast in silence, showing no interest in the animated conversation, and with scant apologies left the table long in advance of the others to resume his task.
At five o’clock a dusty vettura drove noisily into the driveway, and from his point of vantage, lying on his back underneath the automobile, Armstrong saw Mr. Ferdinand De Peyster alight. With a curse muttered, not from any antipathy to his visitor, but simply on general principles, he laboriously extricated himself from his position with a view to the extension of hospitality. De Peyster saw the movement and hastily approached.
Ferdinand De Peyster was a distinct individuality, which in a degree explained the criticism which some of his friends passed upon him. His foreign descent, though now tempered by two generations of American influence, was probably responsible for the fact that he was “different from other men.” Always faultlessly dressed, his taste followed the continental styles rather than those which other men about him were in the habit of adopting, so while Americans in Florence were clad in flannels, négligé shirts, and white buckskins, De Peyster appeared at the Villa Godilombra immaculate in the conventional lounging-coat, tucked shirt and lavender gloves, with white spats over his patent-leather shoes. There was more of a contrast between visitor and guest at that moment than Armstrong realized as he emerged in his old clothes, thoroughly soaked through with perspiration, and with his hands and face grimy with oil and dirt.
De Peyster drew back instinctively as the full vision of Jack’s figure presented itself. “Comprenez vous français?”
Armstrong stopped in his advance as he heard the question and noted the superior tone in which it was delivered. Then the humor of the situation appealed to him.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, respectfully, “or English, if you prefer.”
De Peyster’s face brightened. “Ah! Mr. Armstrong brought you over with him?” he remarked, becoming almost sociable.
“Yes, sir,” Jack replied, truthfully. “Is there anything I can do for you, sir?”
“I am Mr. De Peyster,” said Ferdinand, with condescension—“a friend of your master’s in America. Is he at home this afternoon?”