“Seriously, Uncle Salvatore,” he said. “I want you to see if you cannot recollect that the marriage letter was dated March the first. It is very important that you should do that; it will be disastrous for you if you don’t. I just want you to recollect clearly that I am right about it. The letters will never be produced, for I have destroyed them both.... But surely when you sent me them you thought that it was as I say. Probably you will never be called upon to swear to your belief, but just possibly you may. It would be nice if you could recollect that; it would remove the stain from the honour of your illustrious house, and, also, parenthetically, from my poor shield.”
Colin paused a moment with legs crossed in an attitude of lazy ease; he lay back in his low chair and scratched one ankle with the heel of his shoe.
“Mosquitoes already!” he said, “what troublesome things there are in the world! Mosquitoes you know, Uncle Salvatore, or want of money for instance. If I were a scheming, inventive fellow, I should try to arrange to give a pleasant annuity to mosquitoes on the condition of their not biting me. If one bit me after that, I should withdraw my annuity. What nonsense I am talking! It is getting into the sun and the warmth and your delightful society that makes me foolish and cheerful. Let us get back to what I was saying. I am sure you thought when you gave me those dear letters that the date of your adored sister’s marriage was the first of March. In all seriousness I advise you to remember that it was so. That’s all; I believe we understand each other. Vittoria’s future, you know, and all the rest of it. And on my father’s death, I shall be a very rich man. But memory, what a priceless possession is that! If you only had a good memory, Uncle Salvatore!... Persuade me that you have a good memory. Reinstate, as far as you can, the unblemished honour of the Viagis. Yes, that’s all.”
Colin got up and examined the odious objects that hung on the walls. There was a picture framed in shells; there was a piece of needlework framed in sea-weed; there was a chromo-lithograph of something sacred. All was shabby and awful. A stench of vegetables and the miscellany called frutta di mare stole in through the windows from the barrows outside this splendid Palazzo Viagi.
“But the record at the Consulate,” said Salvatore, with Italian cautiousness. “You told me that though the date there appeared to be the same as that which I certainly seem to recollect on the letter....”
Colin snapped himself round from an absent inspection of, no doubt, Vittoria’s needlework.
“But what the deuce has that got to do with you, Uncle Salvatore?” he said. “I want your recollection of the dates on the letters which we have been speaking of and of nothing else at all. Do I not see Vittoria’s handiwork in this beautiful frame of shells? How lucky she has a set of clever fingers if her father has a bad memory! She will have herself to support and him as well, will she not? And what do you know of any register at the Consulate? The noble Viagis would not mix themselves up with low folk like poor Mr. Cecil. In fact, he told me that he had not the honour of your acquaintance. Do not give it him. Why should you know Mr. Cecil? About that letter now....”
“It was certainly my impression,” began Salvatore.
Colin interrupted. “I don’t deal with your impressions,” he said. “Was not the letter concerning my mother’s marriage dated the first of March? That’s all; yes or no.”
Salvatore became the complete troubadour again, and his malachite studs made him forget his black tie. Again he skipped from his chair with open arms.