She made a pretence of turning to go, but he said:
"Wait! Now that you are here I have something to show to you."
"To me?"
"Come in," he cried, and, blowing a kiss to the boy, Roma followed Rossi into the sitting-room.
"One moment," he said, and he left her to go into the bedroom.
When he came back he had a small parcel in his hands wrapped in a lace handkerchief.
"We have talked so much of my old friend Roselli that I thought you might like to see his portrait."
"His portrait? Have you really got his portrait?"
"Here it is," and he put into her hands the English photograph which used to hang by his bed.
She took it eagerly and looked at it steadfastly, while her lips trembled and her eyes grew moist. There was silence for a moment, and then she said, in a voice that struggled to control itself: "So this was the father of little Roma?"