entered it. You remember her? Ah, well!" he added, sighing. "Poor thing!
I regret to say she is very ill indeed. She cannot stand your English
climate. The doctor says she will die if she remains here. Yet what can
I do? If we go back to Italy we shall only starve." And I saw that he
was in deep distress, and that mention of his ailing wife had aroused
within him bitter thoughts.

Olinto Santini walked back at my side in the direction of Trafalgar
Square, answering the questions I put to him. He had been a good,
hard-working servant, and I was glad to see him again. 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