The faithful old man was heart-broken at my sudden decision to leave.
“Ah, signor padrone,” he sighed, when he returned to report, “this is a sorry day for me! To think—the signore goes to England so far off, and I shall never see him again! I have told them in the town, and everyone regrets.”
“No doubt,” I answered, smiling. “I suppose I’ve been a pretty paying customer to the tradespeople. They must have made good profit out of me—eh, Nello?”
“They did, signor padrone, before I came to you; but of late it has been different. I’ve continually threatened to tell you when I’ve found them attempting to cheat. They don’t like to be thought thieves by an Englishman, signore.”
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Faltered the white-haired old man. “Ah, signore, you don’t know—indeed you don’t. You have always been so good to me that somehow—well, to tell the truth, I’ve served you as though you were my own son. Could you not take me with you to England?”
“Impossible!” I said. “You don’t know English, in the first place; besides, you have your family here. You’ll be far better off in Leghorn than in England, with its grey skies and damp climate. You, a Tuscan, couldn’t stand it a month.”
“But Beppo Martini, from the Hotel Campari, went to London, and now he’s one of the head-waiters at the Hotel Carlton—a splendid post, they say,” urged Nello.
“I know. But he was younger, and he’d been in Paris years before,” I answered decisively. “I regret, Nello, but to take you to England is utterly impossible. When I am gone, however, I hope to hear of you often through the signor console.”
“But you do not know,” he urged. “You can’t know. All I can tell you is that when we part you will be in peril. While I am at your side nothing can happen. If you discharge me, then I fear for your safety.”