A glance at the sheet he held out to her showed her what the letter was. It announced the death of Federico’s mother.
“Ever since you went away to America, the señora marquesa’s health has been very bad. We all of us knew that the end might come at any moment. She was thinking of you when she died. We heard her speak your name even after we thought she would never say another word.
“We enclose a few particulars about the estate which unfortunately....”
Elena stopped reading to look with inquiring eyes at her husband. But he stood with his head sunk between his shoulders, as though stricken himself by the news. She hesitated about speaking; but as time passed and he still stood brooding in silence, she said slowly:
“I suppose that this news, which really can’t have been so unexpected—you remember you said several times that you feared this must happen soon—isn’t going to keep us from going to the garden fête?”
Torre Bianca raised his eyes and looked at her in amazement.
“What are you saying? Don’t you understand that it is my mother who has died?”
Elena pretended to be somewhat embarrassed; then she said in a tone of kindly sympathy,
“I am so sorry to hear of the poor lady’s death! She was your mother, and that in itself is enough to make me grieve for her. But you must remember, Federico, that I never saw her and that she knew me only from photographs. Do be calm and try to be reasonable! Just because, on the other side of the globe, this unhappy event has occurred we surely aren’t going to deprive ourselves of going to a fiesta that represents a tremendous outlay of money, and that has been prepared especially for us, by our friend....”
She drew near to her husband, and said in a melting voice, while she caressed his cheek—