In the smoking-room he did not hang back at all. Directly we had taken
our usual seats he leaned sideways over the arm of his chair and looked
straight into my eyes earnestly.
"You remember," he began, "that day you went away? I told you then I
would go to the Villa Nazionale to hear some music in the evening."
I remembered. His handsome old face, so fresh for his age, unmarked by
any trying experience, appeared haggard for an instant. It was like the
passing of a shadow. Returning his steadfast gaze, I took a sip of my
black coffee. He was systematically minute in his narrative, simply in
order, I think, not to let his excitement get the better of him.
After leaving the railway station, he had an ice, and read the paper in
a cafe. Then he went back to the hotel, dressed for dinner, and dined
with a good appetite. After dinner he lingered in the hall (there were
chairs and tables there) smoking his cigar; talked to the little girl
of the Primo Tenore of the San Carlo theatre, and exchanged a few words
with that "amiable lady," the wife of the Primo Tenore.
Pages:
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426