“And Italy will win?” I continued idly.
“Sicuro!” came the reply reassuringly, “ma!”
And in that expressive “ma” I might read all the anxiety, the fears of Italy.
At last the signora came, dressed in the same black she had worn the day Enrico had left Rome. In her hand she carried a little bag. She gave me a timid smile as Giuseppe settled her under the felza.
“You were surprised at the telegram?”
“A little,” I confessed.
“I had to come,” she sighed as the gondola pushed into the narrow, tortuous canal that led back to the piazza.
“What news from Enrico?”
“Nothing! Not a word!... That’s why I came.”
“It’s only been a week—the mails are slow,” I suggested.