“It’s pleasanter here,” said Gertrude, and she led the way into the parlor,—a high, clean, rather empty-looking room. Here they stood looking at each other,—the young man smiling more than ever; Gertrude, very serious, trying to smile.
“I don’t believe you know my name,” he said. “I am called Felix Young. Your father is my uncle. My mother was his half sister, and older than he.”
“Yes,” said Gertrude, “and she turned Roman Catholic and married in Europe.”
“I see you know,” said the young man. “She married and she died. Your father’s family didn’t like her husband. They called him a foreigner; but he was not. My poor father was born in Sicily, but his parents were American.”
“In Sicily?” Gertrude murmured.
“It is true,” said Felix Young, “that they had spent their lives in Europe. But they were very patriotic. And so are we.”
“And you are Sicilian,” said Gertrude.
“Sicilian, no! Let’s see. I was born at a little place—a dear little place—in France. My sister was born at Vienna.”
“So you are French,” said Gertrude.
“Heaven forbid!” cried the young man. Gertrude’s eyes were fixed upon him almost insistently. He began to laugh again. “I can easily be French, if that will please you.”