‘I suspect that Gervasio’s Italian may not be useful for drawing-room purposes,’ her uncle laughed. ‘I shall send him to college,’ she added, her mind running ahead of present difficulties, ‘and prove that peasants are really as bright as princes, if they have the same chance. He’ll turn out a genius like—like Crispi.’ ‘Heaven forbid!’ exclaimed Sybert, but he examined Marcia with a new interest in his eyes. ‘We can decide on the young man’s career later,’ Copley suggested. ‘He seems to be embarrassed by these personalities.’ Gervasio, with all these august eyes upon him, was on the point of breaking out into one of his old-time wails when Mrs. Copley fortunately diverted the attention by inquiring if they had dined. ‘Neither Mr. Sybert nor I have had any dinner,’ Marcia returned, ‘and I shouldn’t be surprised if Gervasio has missed several. But Marcellus, under the chair there, has had his,’ she added. Mrs. Copley recalling her duties as hostess, a jangling of bells ensued. Pietro appeared, and stared at Gervasio with as much astonishment as is compatible with the office of butler. Mrs. Copley ordered dinner for two in the dining-room and for one in the kitchen, and turned the boy over to Pietro’s care. ‘Oh, let’s have him eat with us, just for to-night.’ Marcia pleaded. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Mr. Sybert? He’s so hungry; I love to watch hungry little boys eat.’ ‘Marcia!’ expostulated her aunt in disgust. ‘How can you say such things? The child is barefooted.’ ‘Since my own son and heir is banished from the dinner-table, I object to an unwashed alien’s taking his place,’ Copley put in. ‘Gervasio will dine with the cook.’ To Gervasio’s infinite relief, he was led off to the kitchen and consigned to the care of François, who later in the evening confided to Pietro that he didn’t believe the boy had ever eaten before. Marcia’s and Sybert’s dinner that night was an erratic affair and quite upset the traditions of the Copley ménage. To Pietro’s scandalization, the two followed him into the kitchen between every course to see how their protégé was progressing. Gervasio sat perched on a three-legged stool before the long kitchen table, his little bare feet dangling in space, an ample towel about his neck, while an interested scullery-maid plied him with viands. He would have none of the strange dishes that were set before him, but with an expression of settled purpose on his face was steadily eating his way through a bowl of macaroni. It was with a sigh that he had finally to acknowledge himself beaten by the Copley larder. Marcia called Bianca (Marietta’s successor) and bade her give Gervasio a bath and a bed. Bianca had known the boy in his pre-villa days, and, if anything, was more wide-eyed than Pietro on his sudden promotion. * * * * * As Marcia was starting upstairs that night, Sybert strolled across the hall toward her and held out his hand.