rooms were closed for re-decoration, and most of the furniture swathed
in linen.

I was on my way to pay a visit to a lady who lived up at Hampstead, a
friend of my late mother's, and had just turned into Pall Mall, when a
voice at my elbow suddenly exclaimed in Italian--

"Ah, signore!--why, actually, my padrone!"

And looking round, I saw a thin-faced man of about thirty, dressed in
neat but rather shabby black, whom I instantly recognized as a man who
had been my servant in Leghorn for two years, after which he had left to
better himself.

"Why, Olinto!" I exclaimed, surprised, as I halted. "You--in London--eh?
Well, and how are you getting on?"

"Most excellently, signore," he answered in broken English, smiling.
"But it is so pleasant for me to see my generous padrone again. What
fortune it is that I should pass here at this very moment!"

"Where are you working?" I inquired.

"At the Restaurant Milano, in Oxford Street--only a small place, but we
gain discreetly, so I must not complain. I live over in Lambeth, and am
on my way home."

"I heard you married after you left me. Is that true?"

"Yes, signore. I married Armida, who was in your service when I first