room. He was in boots and
breeches and otherwise warmly clad, and freshly shaven. He rocked on his
heels and toes, and ran his palm over his blue-white chin in search of a
possible slip of the razor.

Giovanni came in to announce that he had telephoned, and that the
signore's brown mare would be at the park entrance precisely at
half-after eight. Giovanni still marveled over this wonderful voice
which came out of nowhere, but he was no longer afraid of it. The
curiosity which is innate and child-like in all Latins soon overcame his
dark superstitions. He was an ardent Catholic and believed that a few
miracles should be left in the hands of God. The telephone had now
become a kind of plaything, and Hillard often found him in front of it,
patiently waiting for the bell to ring.

The facility with which Giovanni had mastered English amazed his teacher
and master; but now he needed no more lessons, the two when alone
together spoke Giovanni's tongue: Hillard, because he loved it, and
Giovanni because the cook spoke it badly and the English butler not at
all.

"You have made up your mind to go, then, _amico_?" said Hillard.

"Yes, signore."

"Well, I shall miss you. To whom shall I talk the tongue I love so well,
when Giovanni is gone?" with a lightness which he did not feel. Hillard
had grown very fond of the old Roman in these seven years.

"Whenever the signore goes to Italia, he shall find me. It needs but a
word to bring me to him. The signore will pardon me, but he is
like--like a son."

"Thanks, Giovanni. By the way, did you hear a woman singing in the
street last night?"

"Yes. At first--" Giovanni hesitated.

"Ah, but that could not be, Giovanni; that could not be."

"No, it could not be. But she sang well!" the old servant ventured.

"So thought I. I even ran out into the street to find out who she was;
but she vanished like the lady in the conjurer's trick. But it seemed to
me that, while she sang in Italian, she herself was not wholly of that
race."

"_Buonissima!_" Giovanni struck a noiseless brava with his hands. "Have
I not always said that the signore's ears are as sharp as my own? No,
the voice was very beautiful, but it was not truly Roman. It was more
like they talk in Venice. And yet the sound of the voice decided me. The
hills have always been calling to me; and I must answer."

"And the unforgetting _carabinieri_?"

"Oh, I must take my chance," with the air of a fatalist.

"What shal