Jerry Junior

Constance finished with her view first, and crossing over, she seated herself in the deep embrasure of a window close beside Tony’s parapet. He rose again at her approach, but there was no eagerness in the motion; it was merely the necessary deference of a donkey-driver toward his employer.

“Oh, sit down,” she insisted, “I want to talk to you.”

He opened his eyes with a show of surprise; his hurt feelings insisted that all the advances should be on her part. Constance seemed in no hurry to begin; she removed her hat, pushed back her hair, and sat playing with the bunch of edelweiss which was stuck in among the roses—flattening the petals, rearranging the flowers with careful fingers; a touch, it   seemed to Tony’s suddenly clamoring senses, that was almost a caress. Then she looked up quickly and caught his gaze. She leaned forward with a laugh.

“Tony,” she said, “do you spik any language besides Angleesh?”

He triumphantly concealed all sign of emotion.

“Si, signorina, I spik my own language.”

“Would you mind my asking what that language is?”

He indulged in a moment’s deliberation. Italian was clearly out of the question, and French she doubtless knew better than he—he deplored this polyglot education girls were receiving nowadays.

He had it! He would be Hungarian. His sole fellow guest in the hotel at Verona the week before had been a Hungarian nobleman, who had informed him that the Magyar language was one of the most difficult on the face of the globe. There was at least little likelihood that she was acquainted with that.

“My own language, signorina, is Magyar.”

“Magyar?” She was clearly taken by surprise.

“Si, signorina, I am Hungarian; I was born in Budapest.” He met her wide-opened eyes with a look of innocent candor.

“Really!” She beamed upon him delightedly; he was playing up even better than she had hoped. “But if you are Hungarian, what are you doing here in Italy, and how does it happen that your name is Antonio?”

“My movver was Italian. She name me Antonio after ze blessed Saint Anthony of Padua. If you lose anysing, signorina, and you say a prayer to Saint Anthony every day for nine days, on ze morning of ze tenth you will find it again.”

“That is very interesting,” she said politely. “How do you come to know English so well, Tony?”

“We go live in Amerik’ when I li’l boy.”

“And you never learned Italian? I   should think your mother would have taught it to you.”

He imitated Beppo’s gesture.

“A word here, a word there. We spik Magyar at home.”

“Talk a little Magyar, Tony. I should like to hear it.”

“What shall I say, signorina?”

“Oh, say anything you please.”

He affected to hesitate while he rehearsed the scraps of language at his command. Latin—French—German—none of them any good—but, thank goodness, he had elected Anglo-Saxon in college; and thank goodness again the professor had made them learn passages by heart. He glanced up with an air of flattered diffidence and rendered, in a conversational inflection, an excerpt from the Anglo-Saxon Bible.

“Ealle gesceafta, heofonas and englas, sunnan and monan, steorran and eorthan, hè gesceop and geworhte on six dagum.”

“It is a very beautiful language. Say some more.”

He replied with glib promptness, with a passage from Beowulf.

“Hie dygel lond warigeath, wulfhleothu, windige naessas.”

“What does that mean?”

Tony looked embarrassed.

“I don’t believe you know!”

“It means—scusi, signorina, I no like to say.”

“You don’t know.”

“It means—you make me say, signorina,—‘I sink you ver’ beautiful like ze angels in Paradise.’”

“Indeed! A donkey-driver, Tony, should not say anything like that.”

“But it is true.”

“The more reason you should not say it.”

“You asked me, signorina; I could not tell you a lie.”

The signorina smiled slightly and looked away at the view; Tony seized the opportunity to look sidewise at her. She turned back and caught him; he dropped his eyes humbly to the floor.

“Does Beppo speak Magyar?” she inquired.

“Beppo?” There was wonder in his tone at the turn her questions were taking. “I sink not, signorina.”

“That must be very inconvenient. Why don’t you teach it to him?”

“Si, signorina.” He was plainly nonplussed.

“Yes, he says that you are his father and I should think—”

“His father?” Tony appeared momentarily startled; then he laughed. “He did not mean his real father; he mean—how you say—his god-father. I give to him his name when he get christened.”

“Oh, I see!”

Her next question was also a surprise.

“Tony,” she inquired with startling suddenness, “why do you wear earrings?”

He reddened slightly.

“Because—because—der’s a girl I like ver’ moch, signorina; she sink earrings look nice. I wear zem for her.”

“Oh!—But why do you fasten them on with thread?”