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"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
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.


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