I was on my way to pay a visit to a lady who lived up at Hampstead, a friend of my late mother’s, and had just turned into Pall Mall, when a voice at my elbow suddenly exclaimed in Italian—­

“Ah, signore!—­why, actually, my padrone!”

And looking round, I saw a thin-faced man of about thirty, dressed in neat but rather shabby black, whom I instantly recognized as a man who had been my servant in Leghorn for two years, after which he had left to better himself.

“Why, Olinto!” I exclaimed, surprised, as I halted.  “You—­in London—­eh?  Well, and how are you getting on?”

“Most excellently, signore,” he answered in broken English, smiling.  “But it is so pleasant for me to see my generous padrone again.  What fortune it is that I should pass here at this very moment!”

“Where are you working?” I inquired.

“At the Restaurant Milano, in Oxford Street—­only a small place, but we gain discreetly, so I must not complain.  I live over in Lambeth, and am on my way home.”

“I heard you married after you left me.  Is that true?”

“Yes, signore.  I married Armida, who was in your service when I first entered it.  You remember her?  Ah, well!” he added, sighing.  “Poor thing!  I regret to say she is very ill indeed.  She cannot stand your English climate.  The doctor says she will die if she remains here.  Yet what can I do?  If we go back to Italy we shall only starve.”  And I saw that he was in deep distress, and that mention of his ailing wife had aroused within him bitter thoughts.

Olinto Santini walked back at my side in the direction of Trafalgar Square, answering the questions I put to him.  He had been a good, hard-working servant, and I was glad to see him again.  When he left me he had gone as steward on one of the Anchor Line boats between Naples and New York, and that was the last I had heard of him until I found him there in London, a waiter at a second-rate restaurant.

When I tried to slip some silver into his hand he refused to take it, and with a merry laugh said—­

“I wonder if you would be offended, signore, if I told you of something for which I had been longing and longing?”

“Not at all.”

“Well, the signore smokes our Tuscan cigars.  I wonder if by chance you have one?  We cannot get them in London, you know.”

I felt in my pocket, laughing, and discovered that I had a couple of those long thin penny cigars which I always smoke in Italy, and which are so dear to the Tuscan palate.  These I handed him, and he took them with delight as the greatest delicacy I could have offered him.  Poor fellow!  As an exiled Italian he clung to every little trifle that reminded him of his own beloved country.

When we halted before the National Gallery prior to parting I made some further inquiries regarding Armida, the black-eyed, good-looking housemaid whom he had married.

“Ah, signore!” he responded in a voice choked with emotion, dropping into Italian.  “It is the one great sorrow of my life.  I work hard from early morning until late at night, but what is the use when I see my poor wife gradually fading away before my very eyes?  The doctor says that she cannot possibly live through the next winter.  Ah! how delighted the poor girl would be if she could see the padrone once again!”