I allowed him to go and fetch her, rather surprised that she should be well enough to get about after all he had told me concerning her illness.  Yet consumption does not keep people in bed until its final stages.

As I stood there, gazing round the room, I could not well distinguish its furthermost corners, for the lamp bore a shade of green paste-board, which threw a zone of light upon the table, and left the remainder of the room in darkness.  When, however, my eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, I discerned that the place was dusty and somewhat disordered.  The sofa was, I saw, a folding iron bedstead with greasy old cushions, while the carpet was threadbare and full of holes.  When I drew the old rep curtains to look out of the window, I found that the shutters were closed, which I thought unusual for a room so high up as that was.

Olinto returned in a few moments, saying that his wife had evidently gone to do some shopping in the Lower-Marsh, for it is the habit of the denizens of that locality to go “marketing” in the evening among the costermongers’ stalls that line so many of the thoroughfares.  Perishable commodities, the overplus of the markets and shops, are cheaper at night than in the morning.

“I hope you are not pressed for time, signore?” he said apologetically.  “But, of course, the poor girl does not know the surprise awaiting her.  She will surely not be long.”

“Then I’ll wait,” I said, and flung myself back into the chair he had brought forward for me.

“I have nothing to offer you, signer padrone,” he said, with a laugh.  “I did not expect a visitor, you know.”

“No, no, Olinto.  I’ve only just had dinner.  But tell me how you have fared since you left me.”

“Ah!” he laughed bitterly.  “I had many ups and downs before I found myself here in London.  The sea did not suit me—­neither did the work.  They put me in the emigrants’ quarters, and consequently I could gain nothing.  The other stewards were Neapolitans, therefore, because I was a Tuscan, they relegated me to the worst post.  Ah, signore, you don’t know what it is to serve those emigrants!  I made two trips, then returned and married Armida.  I called on you, but Tito said you were in London.  At first I got work at a cafe in Viareggio, but when the season ended, and I was thrown out of employment, I managed to work my way from Genoa to London.  My first place was scullion in a restaurant in Tottenham Court Road, and then I became waiter in the beer-hall at the Monico, and managed to save sufficient to send Armida the money to join me here.  Afterwards I went to the Milano, and I hope to get into one of the big hotels very soon—­or perhaps the grill-room at the Carlton.  I have a friend who is there, and they make lots of money—­four or five pounds every week in tips, they say.”

“I’ll see what I can do for you,” I said.  “I know several hotel-managers who might have a vacancy.”