“Yes, we find it very nice. Myself, I prefer the quiet village life of Antigniano to this place. We only come up here at rare intervals, when Gemma gets dull.”
The pretty dark-eyed young girl laughing at me said:—
“Mother likes all the old fogies, Mr Leaf, while I like to see life. Out yonder at Antigniano they are all old frumps, and the men never remain there. They always take the tram and come into Leghorn.”
Like a flash it occurred to me to make an inquiry of them.
“By the way,” I said, “you know all the Americans and English here. Do you happen to know a man named Miller?”
“Miller? No,” was the American woman’s reply.
“Haven’t you mistaken the name? There’s a man named Milner, who has a daughter, a tall, rather smart dark-haired girl.”
“Milner,” I repeated, recognising at once that in Leghorn the final “r” was added. “Yes, perhaps that’s the name. He’s a tall elderly man—a gentleman. His daughter’s name is Lucie.”
“I know her,” exclaimed Gemma quickly. “We’ve met them lots of times. They live in a flat at the other end of the promenade, towards the town.”
“I want to call. Do you know the number?”