So these two hunted all over Florence, and at length, in
the studio of a certain not unknown Florentine, they discovered the very
gift Mae desired--a picture of a young Italian soldier, bringing home
his bride to his own people. There was the aged mother, proud and happy,
waiting to bid the dark-eyed girl welcome. "She has a real 'old Nokomis'
air," laughed Mae. "I know she would have told her son not to seek 'a
stranger whom he knew not.'" The distant olive-colored hillsides, the
splashing fountain near at hand, each face, and even the thick strong
sunshine seemed to bear a tiny stamp with Italy graven on it. "The name
of the picture is exactly right," said Mae. Under the painting were
these words: "Italia Our Home."
Norman would hardly have been human if he had not cast a quick glance at
her as she stood thoughtfully before the picture. Mae was almost as good
as an Italian for involuntary posing. She had made a tableau of herself
now, with one hand at her eyes to shade them from the glare of the sun
that fell fiercely through the window, her head half on one side, and a
bit of drapery, of lace or soft silk, tight around her white throat.
Pages:
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205