“Surely. But don’t ask him about her. These fellows chatter on for ever, and it’s half lies.”
Colin laughed. “As I shouldn’t understand one word of it,” he said, “it would make little difference whether it was all lies.”
Once again, and more markedly than ever, as they drove up the angled dusty road set in stone walls and bordered by the sea of vineyards, the sense of homecoming seized Colin. It was not that his father was by him or that he was going to his father’s house; the spell worked through the other side of his parentage, and he felt himself strangely more akin to the boys who, trudging homewards, shouted a salutation to their driver, to the girls who clustered on the doorsteps busy with their needle, than to the grave man who sat beside him and watched with something of a lover’s tenderness his smiles and glances and gestures. Philip read Rosina into them all, and she who had so soon sated him till he wearied of her, woke in him, through Colin, a love that had never before been given her.
“I cannot imagine why I never thought of bringing you out to Italy before,” said Philip, “or why, when you asked me to take you, I hesitated.”
Colin tucked his arm into his father’s. He was wonderfully skilful in displaying such little signs of affection, which cost him nothing and meant nothing, but were so well worth while.
“Do I seem to fit into it all, father?” he said. “I am so glad if I do.”
“You more than fit into it, my dear,” said Philip. “You’re part of it. Why on earth did I never see that?”
“Part of it, am I? That’s exactly what I’ve been feeling all day. I’m at home here. Not but what I’m very much at home at Stanier.”
Lord Yardley clicked his tongue against his teeth. “I wish to God you were my eldest son,” he said. “I would give anything if that were possible. I would close my eyes ever so contentedly when my time comes if I knew that you were going to take my place.”
“Poor old Raymond!” said Colin softly. “He’s doing his best, father.”