“I heard of that long ago,” said Forbes.
“What!” I exclaimed, in astonishment.
“Nobody cares anything about that. Everybody knows that he's a good man now—that is enough in America.”
“Do many know it?”
“Probably not. I have heard that even Gwendolyn and her mother do not know it.”
It surprised and in a way it pleased me to learn that I had told him what he already knew. I remembered that he had said, in his walk with me, that the distinguished editor who had got the tragic story from my lips was an uncle of his. So, after all, it was not strange that he should know.
“I presume that he had a wild youth, but he's a good man,” Forbes added.
That was all we said about it.
Our drive, which began at midday, took us through the loveliest vineyards in Italy. I shall never forget the vivid-green valley of the Arno as it looked that day. Lace-like vines spreading over the cresset tops of the olives and between them and filling the air with color; stately poplar rows and dark spires of cypress; distant purple mountain walls and white palaces on misty heights—they were some of the items. Here in these vineyards, and in others like them, are about the best tillers in the world—a simple, honest, beauty-loving people who are the soul of Italy, and, in the main, no country has a better asset.
On the road we met the Litchmans, of Chicago, touring with their yelling-machine and a special car trailing behind them filled with clothes and millinery.