e wore a tiny
suggestion of a moustache which turned up at the corners (a suspicious
examination of this, might have revealed the fact that it was touched up
with burnt cork); there was no doubt but that he was a handsome fellow,
and his attire suggested that he knew it.

Constance clasped her hands in an ecstasy of admiration.

'He's perfect!' she cried. 'Where on earth did Gustavo find him? Did you
ever see anything so beautiful?' she appealed to the others. 'He looks
like a brigand in opera bouffe.'

The donkey-man reddened visibly and fumbled with his hat.

'My dear,' her father warned, 'he understands English.'

She continued to gaze with the open admiration one would bestow upon a
picture or a view or a blue-ribbon horse. The man flashed her a momentary
glance from a pair of searching grey eyes, then dropped his gaze humbly
to the ground.

'_Buon giorno_,' he said in glib Italian.

Constance studied him more intently. There was something elusively
familiar about his expression; she was sure she had seen him before.

'_Buon giorno_,' she replied in Italian. 'You have lived in the United
States?'

'_Si_, signorina.'

'What is your name?'

'I spik Angleesh,' he observed.

'I don't care if you do speak English; I prefer Italian--what is your
name?' She repeated the question in Italian.

'_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 he'll do.'

'The poor fellow is embarrassed,' apologized her father. 'His name is
Tony,' he added--even he had understood that much Italian.

'Was there ever an Italian who had been in America whose name was not
Tony? Why couldn't 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.'

'I suppose not,' she agreed, 'though I should have included that