nd listen, caro padre!” exclaimed Carmella as they walked home from the theater. “I am your interpreter, is it not so?”
In the picture house she had been smilingly affectionate as she translated the titles into Italian and whispered them to him. In some of the interludes, when there was time to talk, she had laughingly added her own name to the list of film credits: “Carmella Coletta, official interpreter.”
And Tommaso had smiled in return. He had forgotten, in the hurry and worry of recent days, that his oldest daughter could be so—so—he could not think of the word. Not since the days in Italy when he was making love to Maria had he needed the word. She was—well, even as Maria her mother had been, but with a strange added new world assurance and boldness. Bella Carmella!
Suddenly it occurred to him to wonder if ever before she had been so completely captivating—so much to be proud of. He had taken her day-by-day development as a matter of course, hardly noticing the changes. But now there had been a break between them–slight,
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