I + 

There was someone who always wanted Gian-Luca, and that was Mario Varese; he had a good-hearted, pitiful affection for Rosa’s foster-child. Mario no longer slapped his thighs, he no longer roared in play; indeed, it might be said that he was now quite grown up⁠—he had broadened out somewhat in the process. Mario was nearly thirty-three, and his hair was receding a little. At one time his dress-suit had hung loosely on him, but now it was rather tight. His cheeks, always red, were redder than ever, and his eyes, that had bulged only slightly in the past, now resembled two brown balls of toffee. But for all this, Mario was still good-looking⁠—and when he could afford it, flashy; on the plump little finger of his large left hand he wore a gold ring with a rhinestone. + 

Mario was very much the man of affairs when reposing in the bosom of his family; to hear him talk of his prowess as a waiter was to know that the Capo di Monte without Mario would merely have ceased to exist. Mario explained at considerable length the art of dealing with clients, the methods of tempting a poor appetite, or soothing an irritable temper. + 

“You assert yourself⁠—but with grace,” said Mario. “You expatiate on the food. You say: ‘I will stroke the lettuce with garlic⁠—no more than that, a caress of garlic⁠—’ Then you say: ‘I observe that the signore is not hungry, that he feels no great wish to eat⁠—in that case, I suggest Fegato alia Veneziana, fried with onions and plenty of butter⁠—but fried, oh, so very gently!’ You watch him, and if he swallows the lot, you step forward and remark with a smile: ‘Good, very good; is it not so, signore?’ If he agrees, then you whip out the menu and tempt with another dish. It is all very easy, and you make them drink too; you observe⁠—as though you were thinking aloud⁠—‘The cellar contains some marvelous wine!’ then you smile: ‘But, alas! the Padrone has his whims; it is only the few who are permitted to taste it. He is like a hen with her chicks,’ you say: ‘He is like a great artist who will not sell his pictures; he rejoices but to look at the outside of the bottles⁠—the insides he reserves for those who have a palate⁠—however, I will do my best for you, signore; I myself will speak with the Padrone’!” + 

Mario said that the Padrone was sly, but that Mario Varese was slyer. “It is wonderful,” laughed Mario, “how the little round tins contain only that which is fresh! They say: ‘Listen, Mario! I want something light⁠—what about a plate of that good consommé? I am rather afraid of tomato soup; it usually lives in a tin!’ ‘Signore!’ I exclaim, as one who is wounded, ‘here we make all things fresh!’ The chef, he it is who opens the tin in which that excellent consommé lives; they drink it up quickly, perhaps they ask for more⁠—Ma che! They do not know the difference!” + 

Mario said that the Padrone had sworn to bring all London to the Capo di Monte. “We have red cotton curtains at the window now, but soon they will be silk!” bragged Mario. The Padrone, he said, was one who would rise; he had a beautiful wife⁠—her hair was golden and she took in the dishes from the little door just behind the bar. She was not quite a barmaid, but she stood among the bottles and bowed to the clients as they passed. Her manner was aloof and she smiled very seldom, therefore when she did smile it made an impression, and those upon whom she smiled were pleased. The Padrone was like that, he also was aloof: he had the bump of selection. “You’ll see! You’ll see!” chuckled Mario delightedly. “One of these days we become the fashion, then we put up our prices, we make them pay high for the fat green snails at the Capo di Monte; and we grow like the snails, fat and rich!” + 

Rosa never listened, but Gian-Luca did, and he came to the conclusion that all men were foolish, except of course the Padrone and Mario, who must be unusually wise. The matter of the tinned soup troubled him a little, but not, it must be said, for very long. If, as Mario had explained, they did not know the difference, then what difference could it make to them? However, he consulted Fabio about it. + 

“I myself do not take it, but I sell it,” Fabio told him. And although this left the ethical question rather vague, it appeared to satisfy Fabio. + 

Mario was so indispensable, it seemed, that holidays were few and far between; when he got one, however, the occasion was momentous⁠—it called for a gathering of the clan. A holiday was not a real holiday to Mario unless it was accompanied by toil; that was the way the good Mario took his pleasures; he planned, he worked, he wore himself out⁠—but after it was over and he lay abed with Rosa, he could count up on his fingers all the things they had done in the course of a brief nine hours. + 

Mario declared that a little glimpse of green was better than a bottle of Asti; but when he found the green there was never time to see it. He sat under it, he walked on it, he lay on it perhaps, but only until he got his breath. On those very rare occasions when Mario found a meadow he would scamper over to the next. He had the sort of mind that goes with large adventure, preferring always that which lies beyond. + 

This mind of his, imprisoned for the best part of the year within the narrow confines of his business, broke loose the very moment it could sniff the country air; off it went and Mario with it, always seeking the beyond, always trying to go just a little farther. + 

Mario was eloquent regarding country air; he said that it took at least ten years off his age. But at times the spirit led him so far afield to find it, that the day would be spent in a third-class railway carriage⁠—then it would be time to go back. He adored his children, so they too must be considered; he was never quite happy without them. He was not quite happy with them, but Mario shrugged his shoulders and supposed that that was often the way in this world. + 