When he left me he had gone as steward on one of the Anchor Line boats between Naples and New York, and that was the last I had heard of him until I found him there in London, a waiter at a second-rate restaurant.
When I tried to slip some silver into his hand he refused to take it, and with a merry laugh said-- "I wonder if you would be offended, signore, if I told you of something for which I had been longing and longing ?" "Not at all." "Well, the signore smokes our Tuscan cigars.

I wonder if by chance you have one?
We cannot get them in London, you know." I felt in my pocket, laughing, and discovered that I had a couple of those long thin penny cigars which I always smoke in Italy, and which are so dear to the Tuscan palate.

These I handed him, and he took them with delight as the greatest delicacy I could have offered him.

Poor fellow! As an exiled Italian he clung to every little trifle that reminded him of his own beloved country.
When we halted before the National Gallery prior to parting I made some further inquiries regarding Armida, the black-eyed, good-looking housemaid whom he had married.
"Ah, signore!" he responded in a voice choked with emotion, dropping into Italian.

"It is the one great sorrow of my life.