Thus the new custom was assumed without Vittoria asking the reason. At table, to solve the question of places, the two ladies of the house were seated one opposite the other, the two places of honour separated by some distance. Marco’s place was on the right of his mother, but much nearer to her, in fact quite far from his wife. So Donna Vittoria Fiore seemed isolated down there in the place of honour on her high-backed chair with a carved coronet, which topped the ornamentation and stood out above the little head with its aureola of golden hair; but she seemed serene and tranquil. Mother and son often, when she was there, forgot her, and during dinner a conversation took place between the two without either directing a word to Vittoria, and as Vittoria never questioned either, neither replied. Sometimes as they talked they looked at her, as if to make her take part in the conversation, but, without opening her mouth, she would content herself with nodding her head to what they said, almost automatically. For two or three months now, with a plausible excuse but with increasing regularity, Marco was missing at the family meal. Sometimes he announced the fact the day before, sometimes he said so at luncheon, and at last, at the close of the season, he more often sent a little note to his mother to say that he was not returning to dinner: but always to his mother, never to Vittoria.
“But why don’t you write a word to her?” she asked, a little, but not very, shocked.
“Because Your Excellency is mistress of the house!” he proclaimed, embracing her like a child, and smiling and laughing.
“Still, she could be hurt about it,” observed the good woman.
When his absences became more frequent, she made some firm remonstrances to him.
“Do I, mamma?” he said, with an uncertain smile.
“Ask her. Try and ask her. You will cut a poor figure, madre bella, since Vittoria will reply that it matters nothing to her.”
“Pretending? Who knows! For that matter I can’t endure people who pretend.”
“Even those who are hiding their sorrow?”
“Even them. A hidden sorrow doesn’t exist for me.
“There, there, mamma, sweet as honey, you mustn’t think me cruel!”
The mother, a little thoughtful, was silent, but not convinced. This evening the absence of her son had worried her more than ever. She entered slowly the immense, solemn, gloomy dining-room of Casa Fiore just as Vittoria entered from the other side. The young woman read the pain on the good-natured old face.