“Thank God! thank God!” said Salvatore. “I—I got your telegram. I have made arrangements so that our privacy shall be uninterrupted. I have, in fact, sent Vittoria and Cecilia to visit friends at Posilippo. Such reproaches, such entreaties, when they heard their cousin Colin was expected, but I was adamant.”
“And how are Vittoria and Cecilia?” asked Colin. The troubadour was almost dancing with impatience.
“They are well, I am glad to say; they have the constitution of ostriches, or whatever is healthiest in the animal kingdom. But time presses, no doubt, with you, dear fellow; you will be in a hurry; duties and pleasure no doubt claim you.”
“No, no,” said Colin. “I am quite at leisure for the day. I am staying with Mr. Cecil our Consul. He is officially engaged all day, and all the hours are at our disposal.... So at last I see the home of my mother’s family. Was it here she lived, Uncle Salvatore?”
“No, in quite another street. My wretched penury drove me here. Even with your bounty, dear Collino, I can scarcely make the two ends meet.”
Colin looked very grave.
“Indeed, I am very sorry to hear that,” he said.
“Ah! You have come to me with bad news,” exclaimed Salvatore, unable to check himself any more. “Break it to me quickly. Vittoria....”
At last Colin had pity.
“Let’s come to business, Uncle Salvatore,” he said. “There’s no bad news, at least if there is you will be making it for yourself. Now, do you remember two letters of my mother which you once sent me? We had a talk about them, and I want you to give me your account of them. Can you describe them to me?”