I + 

“On s’accoutume a tout,” said a wise French writer, and he might have added, “Surtout quand on est jeune”; for youth in spite of its many small tragedies, its longings, its revolts, its uncertainties of spirit, has at least the blessing of adaptability, and no mean a blessing either. And so it was that by the end of eight months Gian-Luca had got used to the life of the Capo; his arms and his legs no longer ached acutely, his brain learnt to keep calm in moments of confusion, he seldom lost his temper and never lost his head; in fact, according to the watchful Padrone, Gian-Luca possessed that rarest of all gifts, the instinct for perfect service. + 

Mario’s fall from grace as a super-waiter had somewhat disconcerted his pupil, who had honestly believed all that he had said regarding his position at the Capo. Mario was such a fine fellow at home, at times almost overbearing; but Mario at the Capo was a very different person; a cringing, servile, incompetent creature, who, far from being the Padrone’s right hand, was obviously not even his left. It was evident therefore, that Mario had lied in a foolish spirit of bravado. + 

“Ma che!” thought Gian-Luca, making a grimace. “Ma che! He is really a very bad waiter; if I were the Padrone I would not keep him even if he is cheap.” + 

But then would come memories of early childhood, of a Mario more active, more fierce, more lighthearted; a Mario who had insisted that a lonely little boy should always take part in his rare excursions; and Gian-Luca would be conscious of a tightening of his throat at times when he looked at Mario, of a vague regret, of an irritating pity for the great, limping, foolish fellow⁠—a pity that was irksome and quite out of place in the busy life of the restaurant. All the same, it inclined him to neglect his own work in order to help his friend; and this worried Gian-Luca, who would tell himself sternly that a boy who had not even got so much as a name could ill afford to neglect his work, could indeed ill afford to pity. For Gian-Luca, now fifteen years old and a Latin, was quickly advancing towards manhood; more than ever he discerned the important difference that lay between substance and shadow. And somewhere in the region of unpractical shadows belonged this pity for Mario; it went with the pity for Rocca’s small goats, a thing he sternly ignored. + 

Mario still bragged when Gian-Luca would listen⁠—yes he actually still had the face to brag! Even after eight months of daily revelations, he continued to weave romances. Gian-Luca would stare incredulously at him, finding no adequate words; feeling hot and uncomfortable all down his spine, blushing with embarrassment for him. Then gradually a light began to dawn on Gian-Luca, though he tried to turn away his eyes; with a terribly clear vision he perceived the truth⁠—Mario bragged from self-abasement; Mario had long ago realized himself, and he lied from the humility of failure. + 

“But a man should not fail,” thought Gian-Luca sternly. “Who has got the time for failures?” + 

Meanwhile he could not help glowing a little with the knowledge of his own success. The Padrone was pleased; he could see that by his fingers which now seldom signaled to him. Poems were all very well, thought Gian-Luca, for those who wished to stay poor⁠—he knew a poet now who fed at the Capo, that was when he fed at all. He was always hungry and he never washed his neck, and moreover, he seldom paid his bills. + 

“Sapristi!” the Padrone would grumble when he saw him. “I am stupid to give that vile little worm credit; but he knows those of Chelsea, some that are famous, and they are the people I want. They shall come to the Capo and paint pictures on my walls, and eat foolish dry birds like peacocks. I shall make them believe that the peacocks strut in with their tails spread out: I shall say: ‘If only you had seen him, how he walked round the kitchen, so lovely, so elegant, only this morning!’ And then they will think that he tastes all the better; I know them; they like a sensation.” + 

So the poet got credit from time to time, but from time to time he did not; and when he came back with some money in his pockets he would usually be looking rather thin. He said to Gian-Luca: + 

“You’re a handsome boy, why don’t you go as a model? I can get you taken on by Munster, if you like; he’s looking for a sort of John the Baptist.” + 

“What would he pay me?” inquired Gian-Luca promptly. + 

“That depends on his circumstances. When he’s flush he pays well; otherwise, my true Italian, he might pay you nothing at all.” + 

“Then I think I am better where I am,” smiled Gian-Luca, “for some day I shall be a headwaiter.” + 

“Oh, summit of all ambition!” sighed the poet, who was picking a cutlet bone. + 

Gian-Luca surveyed him with patient eyes; he forgave much in one who was so hungry. There were not many people, for the luncheon hour was past, so he talked to the poet a little. + 

“You write poetry, do you not?” he said politely. + 

The young man looked up in feigned surprise. “Is it possible that my fame gets abroad?” he inquired. “Yes, I write, and I read too beautifully aloud⁠—my own poems, of course; other people’s are so dull. I’ll send you my latest production, if you like, because I adore your profile. Only beautiful people are allowed to read my book; I’ve stated that clearly in the preface.” + 

But the book was never sent, for the poet went to Paris, owing ten pounds to the Padrone. + 

“No,” thought Gian-Luca, “I do not think I will write poems; I do not think I will try any more.” + 