Carmella Commands
“Perhaps you should see Mrs. Barrington. She’s here now. Come this way, please.”
Miss Sargle led the way to the office of Mrs. Barrington, now presiding over the welfare not only of the sewing class, but of the entire house.
“This is Mrs. Coletta, mother of Carmella Kid Kate,” said the superintendent. “She wants to learn English.”
Mrs. Barrington beamed.
“I know your daughter very well, Mrs. Coletta. A wonderful girl. And I want to know you.”
She was gracious—gracious—gracious. Briefly through her mind ran the taunt that she was “high hat.” She tried desperately to be otherwise. Almost too desperately. Carmella would have sensed it instantly, but her mother was more responsive to surface impressions.
“Yes-s-s!” Maria answered slowly, resolved now or never to make the most of her few English words.
“Carmella—si, signora!—nice! Me—Inglesi—no spika—you show.”
“I’m sure we can find a class for you,” said Mrs. Barrington, calmly oblivious of the fact that the waiting Italian woman had just said “no spika.” “Of course, we must wait till we can organize a beginners’⸺”
Carmella’s mother broke in angrily. The words were nothing, but again that deadly, far-off tone which meant “wait.” Per Dio! When Carmella wanted to
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