Donna Vittoria rose, bent her golden head to kiss her hand, and disappeared silently, she disappeared like a soft shadow to be forgotten in a corner of the world, in a corner of the house, like a poor, soft, little shadow which has never been right, which can never, never be right—which must always be wrong till death and beyond.
III
“Can I come in, Marco?” said a dear and well-known voice at the door.
“Always, always, mamma bella,” he cried vivaciously from his bed.
Donna Arduina entered, with slow and dignified tread, and approached the bed where her son was smoking a cigarette after his coffee. He threw the cigarette away at once to embrace her. Instinctively, with maternal care, she adjusted the pillow, and pulled the counterpane over a little. The son smiled as he let her do it. She looked at him, studied him, and found his appearance tired and run down. He leaned again on his pillow, as if still glad to repose. The mother sat by the bed quietly watching.
“You came home late yesterday evening?” she asked.
“A little late, it is true.”
“I waited for you till midnight, like I used to, Marco mio.”
“Fifteen years ago, madra mia: how old I am growing!”
“I want to preach you a sermon now as I used to. Do you remember? A sermon on your too jolly and disordered life.”