“It was just a passing mood,” he would think, “all women are like that, they have funny moods.” And as like as not he would go to sleep happy, holding on to her hand.
V
I
Gian-Luca had been married for just three years when there came those mighty rumors of war in the July of 1914. Millo had expected an excellent season, but in June an Austrian archduke had been murdered—a grave, kindly man who deserved a better fate—and Millo had begun to feel uneasy. By the middle of July he felt still more uneasy, while to Old Compton Street came a wave of apprehension coupled with incredulous surprise.
“It cannot mean war,” said Teresa firmly, “the financiers of Europe will never allow it. Is not the world ruled by money?”
“It cannot mean war,” repeated Fabio weakly. “As you say, it cannot mean war.”
“If it comes it will ruin us all—” moaned Nerone; “but then the English are such a calm people, England would never go plunging into war.” And at this thought he almost began to love England for breeding so calm a people.
“If only I had Geppe home!” fretted Rosa.
“He will come, he will come!” Mario told her cheerily. “Why should he not come, donna mia? This would not be Italy’s war.”
“Who knows, if they once start fighting—” she persisted; “I wish that our Geppe were home. Suppose I should never see him again—”
“Dio! You women!” snapped Mario.
Rocca said: “And so here is war at last, and it finds me a miserable butcher. All that I am fit for is to slice little goats, or to chop through the bones of a lamb!”
“You talk rubbish,” declared the Signora Rocca. “Who says there will be war?”
“I do,” replied her husband, “I, who once was a soldier.” Then he swore a great oath, and his eyes filled with tears. “It is coming, it is coming, and I am too old—they will not allow me to fight.”
The Padrone of the Capo di Monte felt angry. “Has the whole world gone mad?” he demanded. “What is the meaning of all this great fuss? And over a dog of an Austrian too! Why do I read in my morning paper that stocks and shares are falling to pieces? Here have I worked for these English for years, and now they will not protect me. What has happened, has England fallen asleep? Why cannot England do something?”
By July the 25th they were really alarmed, for the bourse in Vienna had closed. Three days later there was war between Austria and Serbia, and two days after that they saw in their papers that Russia was mobilizing. But worse was to come, for by the end of July the banks all over England had closed their doors.
“I cannot get a penny of my money,” said Teresa, and her voice was deeply shocked and surprised. “Not a penny of my hard-earned money can I get—yet England is not at war.” Disconcerting days for those who had lived so long in the most placid country on earth. They looked at each other with frightened eyes.
“What can it mean?” they kept on repeating.
England had stood to them all in the past less as a country than as bullion, and now the doors of her banks were closed—was she not quite so rich as they had imagined? Would she go bankrupt and all of them with her?
“What have I always said!” stormed Nerone. “Madonna! I am glad that my money is not here, I am glad that in my wisdom I have sent it all home; it is I who have shown great foresight!”
There were new lines now on Teresa’s old face; she thought a great deal but spoke very little, for only she knew the exact amount that was owed by her firm to the bank. She had recently borrowed another small sum, just before the assassination—she had needed a more convenient counter and a range of larger glass cases. But her mouth was set in a hard, straight line, and her black eyes never wavered. When her shop was raided by people who feared that they might be asked to consume less food, Teresa stood firm as a rock in her cash-desk.
“I will not take five-pound notes,” she announced; “I accept only silver and gold, if you please.”
And they paid her in silver and gold if they had it—if they had not, then their motorcars went away empty.
“We will save the Casa Boselli,” said Teresa. “If Europe has gone mad, we at least remain sane; we will save the Casa Boselli.”
And Fabio, very old and thoroughly frightened, nodded and answered, “Si, si.” But his heart misgave him when he looked round the shop. Denuded it was, as though by the passing of an impious swarm of locusts. “Supposing we cannot renew our stock!” he thought. “Supposing the transport is held up—”
II
Gian-Luca was taking late service at the Doric when the news came that England had joined in the war; like lightning it spread from table to table, and people suddenly stopped eating. Millo, rather pale but perfectly composed, whispered a word to his band; there was silence for a moment, and then through the restaurant sounded the National Anthem. A strange, new meaning the hymn had that night. So simple and yet so poignant a meaning, that something leapt into Gian-Luca’s heart, a feeling of bitter resentment. The clients at his tables had forgotten their suppers, of one accord they stood up and sang.
“They are singing because they have a country!” thought Gian-Luca. And presently when the singing had ceased, he turned away from those people.
But in the large restaurant he ran into Riccardo, whose eyes were unusually bright. Riccardo’s perfect manner had completely left him, he appeared to forget that he was a headwaiter,
