"Is he dead—only now?"
"It is only now,—only the other day,—that I have heard of his death."
"Why should not I also be in black?"
"I had not thought of it. But you never saw him since he had you in his arms as a baby. You cannot mourn for him in heart."
"Do you?"
"It is hard to say for what we mourn sometimes. Of course I loved him once. There is still present to me a memory of what I loved,—of the man who won my heart by such gifts as belonged to him; and for that I mourn. He was beautiful and clever, and he charmed me. It is hard to say sometimes for what we mourn."
"Was he a foreigner, mother?"
"Yes, George. He was an Italian. You shall know it all soon now. But do not you mourn. To you no memories are left. Were it not for the necessity of the present moment, no idea of a father should ever be presented to you." She vouchsafed to tell him no more at that moment, and he pressed her with no further questions.