“Shall I get you your slippers?” inquired the Padrona—and when she had fetched them she stooped and put them on.
He patted her head as one pats a dog, but his hand lingered over her hair.
“It is time that I go,” said Gian-Luca, getting up. “I am deeply grateful for your kindness.” He brushed the Padrona’s fingers with his lips, and bowed to the smiling Padrone.
“A fine boy,” said the Padrone, as the door closed on Gian-Luca; “I hope we may some day have one like him.”
II
A great happiness came down like a luminous cloud, in which Gian-Luca moved and had his being. Every detail of that afternoon spent with the Padrona, lived vital and clear in his mind.
He remembered that her hand had lain passively in his, when he had bent and kissed the scar; that her smile had been gentle, her voice reassuring, her words full of kindness for him.
“Is it possible,” he thought, “that she loves me—Gian-Luca?” And he all but decided that it was. So great was his joy that one day he said to Mario: “Let me help you a bit more. I have plenty of time, I can quite well take on part service at your tables, and that way perhaps you can rest your poor foot.” For joy in the heart makes it kind.
Meanwhile the Padrone, observing his growth, ordered him to get a dress-suit. “That short jacket is foolish now,” he told Gian-Luca; “you look like a telegraph pole. How tall are you anyhow?” he inquired.
“I am nearly six foot,” said Gian-Luca.
“Dio mio, what a giant, and not quite seventeen—but when you are older you may then look less gawky.” And the Padrone laughed.
Fabio was told about the dress-suit, and he promptly consulted Mario. “Where can one find it secondhand?” asked Fabio; “he will only grow out of a new one.”
“And in any case,” said Mario, “it is always the custom that a waiter’s first dress-suit should be bought secondhand.”
“For what is the use of needlessly spending?” added Fabio.
“But a waste of good money,” agreed Mario.
It was not very easy to fit Gian-Luca, his arms and his legs were so long. In the end he looked like an elegant scarecrow, and he frowned at his own reflection in the glass, but Mario declared that he would do. His duties as piccolo now fell to the share of a new boy recently imported, and Gian-Luca became a fully-fledged waiter, sanctioned to open wine. The Capo was certainly rising in the world, the fame of its cooking was spreading. Moscatone had had his wages augmented.
“You see,” said the Padrone, in the privacy of bed; “there is no other chef in all England, Gemma, who could do what he does in such premises as these; the kitchen is unfit for a pig.”
“Will you be raising Gian-Luca as well?” his wife inquired.
“Gia, I think I will raise him, if I do not he may go, and I want him to stay on—I may shortly put him over Mario.”
The Padrona was silent; she was not quite certain that she wished Gian-Luca to stay on. It was not always easy to remember, these days, that the thin young giant was a child. Moreover, she had recently witnessed his temper; it had only been over the cat—Schmidt had hurled the cat through the pantry window because he had caught it lapping his tea. Everyone knew, except Gian-Luca, that a cat was possessed of nine lives—the Padrona herself did not care much for animals, she kept the cat to catch mice. But Gian-Luca had seized the Swiss by the collar and had shaken him until he yelled. The Padrona had had to go into the pantry and protest before he would let go; and even then he had looked reluctant, so much was he enjoying himself. The cat had survived—cats always survived; it was only a little bit lame—but the incident had thrown a new light on Gian-Luca, who could be very violent, it seemed. Yet whenever she thought of Gian-Luca leaving, she felt dull and a little depressed. After all, her existence was not a bed of roses—no bed could be that, that was shared with the Padrone.
These thoughts, however, remained hidden from Gian-Luca, who continued to see only kindness in her smile. And yet—with the infallible instinct of the lover, he began to feel strangely uneasy. For one thing, he had not been invited again to have tea in that room upstairs; for another, she seldom spoke to him now, unless it were to give orders. It was all very subtle, very hard to define, as elusive as a will-o’-the-wisp; but somehow the Padrona was withdrawing herself, was gradually slipping far away. He would look at her now with appeal in his eyes, standing tall and abashed in his ill-fitting clothes; waiting while she groped for a bottle of wine, or drew off the beer into glasses. Once she had noticed that look in his eyes and had frowned:
“Make haste!” she had said irrelevantly.
He had flushed and had stretched out a trembling hand for the glasses that were not ready.
The cloud of glory was certainly changing, becoming a damp, cold mist, through which Gian-Luca groped helplessly, unable to find his way. At times he would be stupid from sheer eagerness to please, bringing the Padrona the wrong thing; or he might grin at her familiarly, while his only desire was to be deferential. There were moments when his voice sounded sulky and
