Carmella Commands
stead of commanded, his daughter. For a moment she eyed him, undecided. Then suddenly the defeats and disappointments of the whole day swept over her, and she stormed. Stormed and raged, stamping her feet and screaming.
“No!” she shouted. “No, no, no! I will not go with you. I will go with Nick or I will not go at all. I am old enough to decide. I am old enough. Me, Carmella Kate, to be told like a baby. And you—you to talk so to me. You—a foreigner! You old—you—you wop!”
Carmella turned and rushed upstairs to her room.
Tommaso, making no reply, sat silent, smoking.
Saying nothing, though his eyes twitched queerly, as he saw his daughter turn up the stairs instead of dashing outdoors.
Saying nothing when Maria told him to come to bed.
Late into the night he sat, silently smoking.
Gradually his lips tightened on the amber stem of his pipe. Carmella, his chief pride in life, his hope for all the future, his link between old tongues and new ways—Carmella—she—Madre di Dio!—this idol of his heart had scorned him.
Suddenly he laughed aloud. The girl had not rushed from the house, as for an instant he had thought she would. She had not defied him by going out with Nicolo. Aha—ah-h-h! But the more he meditated the more he wished she had done it. He could have
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