Carmella Commands
“That’s true. But I want to find out why. Why doesn’t your mother come, Kate?”
“Is there a law that she has to?”
“Of course not! But I should think she’d like to.”
“That’s the bunk!” said Carmella. “She don’t have to. She don’t like to. Why should she?”
“But why doesn’t she want to, Kate?”
“She speaks not the English.”
“But—we have some one here who speaks Italian. Mrs. Scalzo would talk to her. And most of the other women talk Italian more than they do English.”
“Yes,” admitted Carmella.
“Then why doesn’t she want to, Kate?”
Carmella wriggled with eagerness to tell. The eagerness of youth possessed of knowledge for which an adult is seeking. But a reticence the native rarely fathoms held her back—the reticence of caution in a strange world. She sat and stared, totally silent.
Suddenly Mrs. Barrington laughed. The altogether happy laugh of one who has solved a secret.
“Carmella Kid Kate!” she exclaimed. “You’re afraid of me. You’re afraid to tell. You’re afraid of me, and I’m just Mrs. Barrington.”
“Afraid nothing!” exclaimed Carmella, as instinctively as she would have met a taunt in the schoolyard at recess. “You think I’m afraid of you? Sure you’re Mrs. Barrington. And what’s that? I’m Carmella Coletta, and I’m private secretary of the Coletta
[21]
