"Shall we go back to the house?"
"No. Let us stay in the garden. Let us sit down."
They sat under the vine, on an old stone bench. Noticing the child's grave and absorbed look, George called him to rouse him from his stupor.
"Luchino!"
The child leaned his heavy head on his mother's knees. He was frail as a lily-stem; he seemed to have difficulty in carrying his head upright on his shoulders. His skin was so delicate that every vein was visible, delineated as if threads of blue silk. His hair was so blond that it was almost white. His eyes, gentle and humid, like those of a lamb, showed their pale azure from between long, fair eyelashes.
His mother caressed him, pressing her lips together to restrain a sob. But two tears welled up, and rolled down her cheeks.
"Oh, Christine!"
Her brother's affectionate tone only increased her emotion. Other tears welled up, and rolled down her cheeks.
"You see, George! I have never claimed anything; I have always accepted everything; I have always been resigned to everything; I have never complained—never rebelled. You know that. George. But now this—now this! Oh! Not even to be able to find a little consolation in my son!"
She spoke tearfully, and in a desolate tone.