“But again I say,” murmured Jackeymo, scarce audibly, and after a long silence, “if the padrone would make up his mind—to marry!”
He expected that his master would start up in his customary indignation at such a suggestion,—nay, he might not have been sorry so to have changed the current of feeling; but the poor Italian only winced slightly, and mildly withdrawing himself from his servant’s supporting arm, again paced the terrace, but this time quietly and in silence. A quarter of an hour thus passed. “Give me the pipe,” said Dr. Riccabocca, passing into the belvidere.
Jackeymo again struck the spark, and, wonderfully relieved at the padrone’s return to the habitual adviser, mentally besought his sainted namesake to bestow a double portion of soothing wisdom on the benignant influences of the weed.
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