“Who can it be?” wondered Anne, looking at it. “Gino Curatulo. Do you remember the name?”
“No, but then I cannot remember any of their names. Ask him if it is a gentleman.”
Dioniseo, who was indeed a beautiful butler with the smile of warm and radiant friendliness which belongs to so many Italian servants, replied, indeed, yes. All society knew Signor Curatulo; many a time had he, Dioniseo, served him at dinners, and taken special charge of his coat at evening receptions.
“I think he must be the Italian I talked with so long at the Von Liebnitzes’,” said Margaret, when Anne had translated. “He is very dark, very foreign, but seems nice, and is quite young, though he has been to Africa and knows some of the ports Tom is to visit. I asked him to call, which was quite wrong, they say, because in Rome the men one meets always leave their cards as a matter of course. I suppose he thought me an ignorant person, which is just what I am. Ask him to come in, and we will have some fresh tea. Ancora—thé,” she said, waving her hand toward the table and addressing Dioniseo, who smiled again, assuring the Signora that she would soon speak perfect Italian.
“I think I remember Curatulo,” said Anne. “He talked with you some time, and was pointed8
