Fabio bowed low; he was longing intensely for the reassuring presence of Teresa, but Teresa had unfortunately gone to the Capo to call on the Padrona that afternoon.
“It shall be as you say, I am honored,” babbled Fabio. “You shall have no cause for complaint.”
At that moment, Gian-Luca strolled in at the door, and seeing the stranger, paused. He looked very tall in the little shop as he towered over Fabio and Millo. His neat blue serge suit became him well—it had not been bought secondhand, for Gian-Luca was particular about his clothes, and when in mufti he dressed with great care, he was even a little foppish. Standing there young, fair-haired and alert, there was something incongruous about him, something that seemed to set him apart from the salumeria in Old Compton Street, from Fabio, from Millo even.
“This is my grandson,” Fabio explained; “he is a waiter at the Capo di Monte.” Millo bowed slightly. “Piacere,” he murmured, as though he were thinking of something quite different; as a matter of fact he was all attention and his mind was working very quickly.
If Francesco Millo had a palate for good food, he had also an eye for a waiter; those who served were as carefully chosen by him as the dishes they were privileged to handle. Moreover, he prided himself on his flair. “I know in a moment,” he was wont to say proudly; “I know the moment my eye rests upon them. It amounts to a psychic faculty with me: I can pick the good waiter out of a thousand; the waiter is born and not made.” His eyes took in every line of Gian-Luca, without appearing to do so. “He is mine!” he was thinking, with that thrill of satisfaction that belongs to the ardent collector. “As it happens,” he said casually, turning to Fabio, “I am wanting a waiter next month; now if your grandson is free I might try him—I suppose he has had some experience?”
“He has had three years at the Capo,” Fabio told him.
“That says nothing to me,” smiled Millo.
“The Capo di Monte in Dean Street, signore.”
“I have never heard of the place.” Then after a minute:
“But that need not matter, no doubt it serves some sort of meals. Perhaps you will give me the name of the Padrone so that I may take up your grandson’s reference; he will get a good reference, I think.”
All this time Gian-Luca had not opened his mouth, nor had he once been consulted; now, however, Millo turned and addressed him directly.
“If your reference is good, as I think it will be, you may come on the morning of the twentieth, side-door, 9:30. I will let you know when I hear from your Padrone, so that you may order yourself a dress-suit.” He scribbled an address on a leaf from his notebook: “This is the tailor who makes for the Doric, he will know how I wish your dress-suit to be made, he will also tell you what else is required. As for terms—they depend entirely on yourself; I pay high, but only for good service. You will not be dependent upon your tips, everyone at the Doric receives a salary—I cannot stop to go into that now, I will speak to you when you come on the twentieth. If you prove satisfactory you will not complain of my terms; if you prove unsatisfactory there will not be any terms, for you go—we will try you and see. I think that is all—oh, do you speak English?”
“I do, Signore,” said Gian-Luca promptly, but before he could get in another word, the great one was leaving the shop.
“Dio mio!” breathed Fabio. “Our Lady is good; she is patient in spite of Teresa.”
But Gian-Luca said nothing, he was thinking deeply—he was thinking about the Padrona.
II
A new idea came to Gian-Luca that night, and he sat up suddenly in bed. “When I go she will miss me,” he thought triumphantly. “She shall find out for herself what it means to be without me, how lonely it will feel not to have the Gian-Luca who was always so ready to serve her.”
He pictured the Padrona sitting behind the bar, with her face in her hands—weeping. “Gian-Luca, Gian-Luca, I want you!” she wailed. “I cannot get on without you!”
He would go there and see her, in a suit of fine clothes, they paid high for good service at the Doric. He would say: “I have come!” And she would reply: “Oh, but I am glad, Gian-Luca! I will meet you tomorrow between luncheon and dinner. Where can we go to be alone?”
“Gia,” thought Gian-Luca, nodding very wisely, “that is the way with women; when they have you they despise you, but when they have you not, then it is they find out that they want you.” He was very near tears in this moment of triumph, but his fighting instinct held. “I will go to the Doric,” he told himself bravely. “I am glad that I have come to a decision.”
This of course was the purest make-believe, for he knew that he had no choice in the matter; Fabio might be weak, but he would not consent to the loss of a fine job like this. Moreover, there was Millo’s custom to consider—that might mean fame for the Casa Boselli. And then there was Teresa, the ambitious, the strong-minded, the dominating woman of affairs.
Nevertheless, he went on repeating: “I will certainly go to the Doric.” And he added: “Tomorrow I tell the Padrone, then we shall see what we shall see.”
III
The next morning he arrived at the Capo very early in order to tell the Padrone. By the greatest good fortune the Padrona was present, which was what Gian-Luca had hoped for. He did not look at the Padrone
