Her eyes followed him as he turned out the kerosene lamp, which was sputtering, and flung fresh logs upon the hearty fire. Overhead the rain droned, like monotonous fingers upon a keyboard, and beside her Sandy slept noisily, with sudden whimpers.
Barry's eyes, meeting the wistful dark ones, smiled responsively, and Maria Angelina felt a queer tightening within her, as if some one had tied a band about her heart.
"You don't have such fires in Italy," he observed, dropping down upon the rug across from her, and refilling that battered pipe of his. "I well remember when I ordered a fire and the cameraria came in with a bunch of twigs."
Madly Maria Angelina fell upon the revelation.
"You have been in Italy!"
"Oh, more than once! But all before the war."
"And you have been in Rome? Oh, to think of that! But where did you stay? Whom did you know there, Signor?"
Barry grinned. "Head waiters!"
"You knew no Romans, then? Oh, but that was a pity."
"I can well believe it, Signorina!"