Soon the Giovanni came home, and took his cornet upstairs. Then he came
to see us. He was an ingenuous youth, sordidly shabby and dirty. His
fair hair was long and uneven, his very high starched collar made one
aware that his neck and his ears were not clean, his American crimson
tie was ugly, his clothes looked as if they had been kicking about on
the floor for a year.
Yet his blue eyes were warm and his manner and speech very gentle.
'You will speak English with us,' I said.
'Oh,' he said, smiling and shaking his head, 'I could speak English very
well. But it is two years that I don't speak it now, over two years now,
so I don't speak it.'
'But you speak it very well.'
'No. It is two years that I have not spoke, not a word--so, you see, I
have--'
'You have forgotten it? No, you haven't. It will quickly come back.'
'If I hear it--when I go to America--then I shall--I shall--'
'You will soon pick it up.'
'Yes--I shall pick it up.'
The landlord, who had been watching with pride, now went away. The wife
also went away, and we were left with the shy, gentle, dirty, and
frowsily-dressed Giovanni.
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