“I do not understand how, living in Rome so many years, you have still found time to travel so much,” said Margaret.
“When I was very young I was fond of joining exploring parties,” he explained simply. “And I have also seen some volunteer service in our African colonies. When my mother was ill I came home to be with her and—I have stayed.”
“They tell me,” said Margaret, “that you Latins care more for your mothers than do the men of my own race.”
“From what I have heard, madame, it seems to be true. Love of the mother is a cult with us Italians. I have friends who have given the devotion of their life to their mothers. She was their actual Romance, whom no sweetheart—no wife—could displace.”
“And when your mother was well again you did not go back?”
“I never went back—” A look of unmistakable and profound sadness came suddenly into his face, and he paused, looking into his tea-cup as though seeing through it into some unhappy memory.
“I should think that after a splendid free life such as you have known in Africa, you would often find this life, the fashionable life of a large city, very dull,” said Margaret.
13
