She thought a moment. Then she said:
“It must be horrible—horrible!”
She spoke with all the vehemence of her nature. Again, as long ago, when she knelt before a mountain shrine in the night, she had put herself imaginatively in the place of a woman, this time in the place of Ruffo’s mother. She realized how she would have felt if her husband, her “man,” had ever been faithless to her.
Ruffo looked at her almost in surprise.
“I wish I could see your poor mother, Ruffo,” she said. “I would go to see her, only—well, you see, I have Peppina here, and—”
She broke off. Perhaps the boy would not understand what she considered the awkwardness of the situation. She did not quite know how these people regarded certain things.
“Wait here a moment, Ruffo,” she said. “I am going to give you something for your mother. I won’t be a moment.”
“Grazie, Signora.”
Hermione went away to the house. The perfect naturalness and simplicity of the boy appealed to her. She was pleased, too, that he had not told all this to Vere. It showed a true feeling of delicacy. And she was sure he was a good son. She went up to her room, got two ten lira notes, and went quickly back to Ruffo, who was standing upon the bridge.
“There, Ruffo,” she said, giving them to him. “These are for your mother.”