In the little enclosure behind the scenes Pietro gave us a welcome that
raised a lump in my throat.
"Old friend!" he exclaimed, in his pure Tuscan. "Why have you left us
lonely so long? The theatre has not been a satisfaction without you. No
one understands it as you do."
As I shook his hand I noted that his dark eyes had dulled over, and that
anxiety had cut a wrinkle between his white old brows.
"I am making amends," I answered. "I am bringing someone who will
comprehend your art as well as I."
"This lady! You are married, then. It is well."
Deborah turned away, and though I hastened to explain, I felt a thrill
of joy. She was not carrying off an embarrassing situation with her
wonted lightness.
"No, no, only an old friend," I said. "I am not married. Deborah, let
me introduce Pietro. He is a true artist. He might be making himself
rich by taking his daughter and a street-piano to the restaurants, but
he prefers to stick to his art and to live on a little."
Pietro's face fell.
"It is not altogether that," he said. "It is true that I love the drama.
But also I do not find that it is good for Beatrice to go where there
are people who look on."