“What you think, Miss Dean?” He suddenly fixed a pair of penetrating black eyes upon her. “You like, too?”
“Like your plan? I should say I did.” Marjorie bent her friendliest smile upon the devoted adherent of the dormitory cause.
“You couldn’t do anything that would bring more happiness to the off-campus girls, Signor Baretti,” Robin told him. “They will feel so proud and happy to be invited by you to a private Thanksgiving dinner. But you mustn’t forget the campus girls. You know your restaurant is the Hamilton girls’ favorite tea room. I simply have to put in a good word for them, too,” she ended loyally.
“Yes, yes; I un’erstan.’ I know what you mean,” the Italian assured. “Oo-oo, many nice studen’s come here, don’t go another tea shop. All the rest of the day after half past two is for them. My ten tables are all reserve for after the dorm dinner. In my restaurant I can put more tables. That is no good. Some studen’s come here I don’t like. They eat here same time as dorm girls maybe they make the trouble. Miss Car-rins ask me for the Thanksgivin’ table. I don’t give her one.” He waved a prohibitive finger in the air. “She can start the trouble from nothin’. You know now she lives in the town?”
“Yes, we know it,” Marjorie’s response came in even tones. “Her business interests keep her in Hamilton, I believe.”
“Her business is too much to mind the business of others.” A fleeting scowl passed over the Italian’s forehead. It lingered between his brows as he said resentfully: “Once this Miss Car-rins say about me when she is here in this room but verra mad at me: ‘Let the dago have his hash house. I hope it burn down tonight.’ Never-r-r I forget that. I feel to say to her when she come here again after long while: ‘You don’t come here more.’ I cannot. This is the inn; for everybody who want come who behave quiet. But never-r-r I let her have the special table. Naw!” The inn keeper put great stress upon this resentful resolve.
Neither Marjorie nor Robin hardly knew what to say. They had long since heard the story Baretti had just told them from Vera.
“I wouldn’t take anything Leslie Cairns said to heart, or ever let it worry me for a minute, Signor Baretti,” Marjorie finally said in soothing tones. She recognized the Italian’s right to comforting words. She knew he could not forgive having been called a “dago.” Far more humiliating it must then be to his pride to have heard his beloved restaurant dubbed a “hash house.”