“Pity your son. Love him more than ever; caress him as you used to four or five years ago; try to make him forget his domestic unhappiness.”
“But why are you unhappy? Why is Vittoria unhappy? Is it through a misunderstanding; through a hundred misunderstandings? Is it not so?”
Marco shook his head, and, without replying, lit another cigarette.
“Marco, why have you resumed your bachelor room? Why do you sleep here?” And she threw a glance round the old room, where all around were large and small portraits of Maria Guasco, with fresh flowers in some vases before them.
“I sleep here because Vittoria wishes it,” he said, with a sarcastic laugh.
“Vittoria?”
“Yes. Sometimes for one reason, sometimes for another; sometimes for a novena, sometimes because she is not well, sometimes because of my departure or my return from hunting. In fact it is she, mamma, who has given me liberty, so I have taken it, and I am naturally at present most contented with it.”
“I am sure that she has suffered, and is suffering about this.”
“Perhaps yes, perhaps no. At any rate she dissimulates perfectly, that is to say, mother, she lies; I can’t go beyond appearances.”