Maria did not fall into the deception, and replied clearly—
“But three weeks are not the same as two, Marco.”
“They are not the same, it is true. I will try to shorten them.”
“Why remain so long?”
“My mother requires assistance this year; my brother Giulio is unable to give her any. I don’t like to say it, but my mother is getting older. The business of the house is heavy: there are so many things to regulate and decide. In fact, I neglect my mother a little.”
“Stop three weeks then,” she said, lowering her eyelids to hide the flash of her proud eyes.
“And you? What will you do in September in Rome alone?”
“I shall do what I can,” she said, throwing her head back among the cushions.
“Poor Maria,” he said slowly.
There was so much lack of comfort in those two words, so much empty sorrow; in fact, a pity so sterile, that she broke in—