“What did you say?” Caleb asked timidly. He could never quite rid his mind of the fancy that the Italian language had a dangerous magic, an abracadabral potency which might land him in Hell by merely listening to it. “I say it issa damn pity He does not putta His arms around my legs. Dat is what I say, Caleb.” “He knows best what is good for us,” Caleb gurgled, turning up his eyes to the ceiling. “_Può essere_,” the old lady murmured. “Perraps He do.” “But what I’ve really come to talk about,” Caleb went on, “is the future of the business. Your presence, of course, will be sadly missed; but you’ll be glad to hear that I have managed to fulfil all our engagements up to date, though naturally with such a terrible loss of material the profits will be small—dreadfully small.” No doubt Caleb was right, and even what profit there was he probably put in his iron box which had comfortably survived the destruction of the factory. “I don’ta aspect no profit,” said Madame Oriano. “But I have been turning things over in my mind,” Caleb pressed, “and I hope very much that you will be pleased with the result of my—er—turnings. Yes, I’m hoping that very much indeed.” Caleb took a deep gulp before he went on, staring away out across the chimney-stacks to escape the old lady’s arched eyebrows. “Madame Oriano, when I came to London six years ago and entered your service, you were a mother to me. I can never forget your beautiful maternal behaviour, ma’am, and, oh, ma’am, I am so anxious to be a son to you now in the hour of your trouble—a true son.” “You never could notta be a son for me, Caleb. _Siete troppo grasso, caro._ You are too big. How you say? Too fat.” “Ah, Madame Oriano, don’t say you won’t let me be a son to you till you’ve heard all I have to tell you. I want to marry your daughter, ma’am. I want to marry your Letizia. I loved her from the first moment I set eyes on her, although of course I knew my position too well to allow myself to indulge in any hopes that would have been wanting in respect to my employer. But I have worked hard, ma’am. Indeed, I venture to think that my love for your daughter is not near so presumptuous at this moment as it would have been when I first entered your service.” “_Sicuro!_ She hassa seventeen years old now,” said Madame Oriano sharply. “She hadda only eleven years then.” “Sweet seventeen!” Caleb sighed. “_Non credo che sia tanto dolce._” “Oh, I do wish that I understood Italian a little better,” Caleb groaned unctuously. “I say I do notta tink she issa so very damn sweet. I tink she issa—how you say in English—one beech.” No doubt, Caleb profoundly agreed with this characterisation of Letizia, held he up never so plump a protestant hand.