The silent tensity of the father’s gaze, fastened on his boy, became unbearable. I followed the signora, who had strolled through the open door to the little terrace and stood looking blankly into the night. Far away, somewhere in the city, rose a clamor of shouting people, and swift footsteps hurried past in the street.
“It will kill his father, if anything happens to him!” she said slowly, as if she knew herself to be the stronger. “You see he chose the grenadiers for Enrico because that regiment almost never leaves Rome: it stays with the King. And now the King is going to the front, they say—it will be the first of all!”
“I see!”
“To-night may be his last time at home.”
“Perhaps,” I said, seeking for the futile crumb of comfort, “they will take Giolitti’s advice, and there will be no war.”
Enrico, who had followed us from the dining-room, caught the remark and cried with youthful conviction: “That Giolitti is a traitor—he has been bought by the Germans!”
“Giolitti!” little Bianca echoed scornfully, arching her black brows. Evidently the politician had lost his popularity among the youth of Italy. Within the dining-room I could see the father sitting alone beside the candle, his face buried in his hands. Bianca caressed her brother’s shoulder with her cheeks.
“I am going, too!” she said to me with a little smile. “I shall join the Red Cross—I begin my training to-morrow, eh, mamma mia?” And she threw a glance of childish defiance at the signora.
“Little Bianca is growing up fast!” I laughed.
“They take them all except the cripples,” the signora commented bitterly, “even the girls!”