“Well,” I said, “he’s dead!”
“What! Our King?”
“Yes. He died at midnight. Here it is.” And I showed her the “Recentissime” or Latest News page of the newspaper, two lines in leaded type: “Londra, 7, ore 2:30 (Urgenza). Re Edoardo è morto a mezzanotte.” She knew enough Italian to comprehend that.
“This last midnight?” She was breathless.
“Yes.”
“But—but—no one even knew anything about him being ill?” she protested.
“Yesterday evening’s Italian papers had columns about the illness—it was bronchitis,” I said grimly.
“Oh!” she said, “I never see the Italian papers.”
Yet the name of Edward the Seventh had been on every newspaper placard in the land on Friday night. But in Italy these British have literally no sight for anything later than the sixteenth century.
Tears stood in her eyes. On my part it would have been just as kindly to knock her down.