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 in my order." Further discussion was precluded by the appearance of a station-carriage which turned in at the gate and stopped before them.