“Far and wide,” he said, “and in all countries except Italy, I believe.”
I wondered why he made, or had made, the reservation.
“A sentiment,” he said, as if I had put the question to him. “I lost a dear friend there once.”
Actually I found his eyes fixed on mine. They were a dark penetrating feature in his face, set under strong brows, and somehow quite at variance with the smiling good humour of his mouth. His hair, though almost white, was full and wavy as a boy’s, and contrasted strangely with his jet-black mutton-chop whiskers, and those again with the strong white line of his teeth. He was tall and excellently compact, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, and had altogether the appearance of a man entirely at his ease with himself and the world.
“Do you know it—Italy?” he asked of me.
“I have never been from here but to school,” I answered.
“Ah!” he said: “what visions! what a prospect! That emancipation from tutelage, and all the world to follow!”
He was interrupted by a quick shrill exclamation from his wife:
“Look! What has happened? What is the matter with him?”
She was on her feet, we were all on our feet, in an instant. Sir Maurice Carnac was fallen heaped back into his chair, his shapeless old face all wryed as if in an exhaustion of horrible laughter, incoherent sounds coming from his lips.