There was a small sitting-room between the two bedrooms; Natalie conducted him into it, and went into the adjoining chamber for her mother. A minute after these two friends and companions of former days met. They held each other's hand in silence for a brief time.
"My hair was not so gray when you last saw me," the worn-faced woman said, at length, with a smile.
Calabressa could not speak at all.
"Mother," the girl said, to break in on this painful embarrassment, "you have not seen Signor Calabressa for so long a time. Will he not stay and dine with us? the table-d'hote, is at half-past six."
"Not the table-d'hote, my little daughter," Calabressa said. "But if one were permitted to remain here, for example—"
"Oh yes, certainly."
"There are many things I wish to speak about; and so little time. To-morrow morning I start for England."
"For England?"
"Most certainly, little daughter. And you have a message, perhaps, for me to carry? Oh, you may let it be cheerful," he said, with his usual gay optimism. "I tell you—I myself, and I do not boast—let it be cheerful! What did I say to you? You are in trouble; I said to you, count upon having friends!"
Calabressa did stay; and they had a kind of meal in this room; and there was a great deal to talk over between the two old friends. But on all matters referring to the moment he preserved a resolute silence. He was not going to talk at the very outset. He was going to England—that was all.