Si, signorina, he ventured again. An anxious look had crept to his face and he hastily turned away and commenced carrying parcels from the kitchen. Constance looked after him, puzzled and suspicious. The one insult which she could not brook was for an Italian to fail to understand her when she talked Italian. As he returned and knelt to tighten the strap of a hamper, she caught sight of the thread that held his earring. She looked a second longer, and a sudden smile of illumination flashed to her face. She suppressed it quickly and turned away.
He seems rather slow about understanding, she remarked to the others, but I dare say hell do.
The poor fellow is embarrassed, apologized her father. His name is Tony, he addedeven he had understood that much Italian.
Was there ever an Italian who had been in America whose name was not Tony? Why couldnt he have been Angelico or Felice or Pasquale or something decently picturesque?
My dear, Miss Hazel objected, I think you are hypercritical. The man is scarcely to blame for his name.