"He was—I've heard my old friend say so. He cursed him at last and forbade him to call himself his son."
"There!"
"But he would never hear a word against the old man. 'He's my father—that's enough,' he would say."
The tooth-tool, like the sponge, dropped out of Roma's fingers.
"How stupid! But his mother...."
"That was sadder still. In the early years of his exile she would pray him to come home. 'You are the best of mothers,' he would answer, 'but I cannot do so.'"
"He never saw her again?"
"Never, but he worshipped her very name and she was a tower of strength to him. 'Mothers!' he used to say, 'if you only knew your power! God be merciful to the wayward one who has no mother!'"
Roma's throat was throbbing. "He ... he was married?"
"Yes. His wife was an Englishwoman, almost as friendless as himself."