"We also," said she reciprocally, "are always charmed to see Italians in
our country."
I wondered privately whether she was thinking of hand organ men or
members of the Mafia society, but it was no opportunity to inquire. My
impression is that about this time, in spite of Tuscany outside, I went
to sleep, because my next recollection is of the little Captain pouring
Chianti out of a large black bottle into momma's jointed silver
travelling cup. I remember thinking when I saw that, that they must have
made progress. Scraps of conversation floated through my waking moments
when the train stopped--I heard momma ask him if his parents were both
living and where his home was. I also understood her to inquire whether
the Italians were domestic in their tastes or whether they were like the
French, who, she believed, had no home life at all. I saw the Senator
put a card in his pocket-book and restore it to his breast, and heard
him inquire whether his new Italian acquaintance wore his uniform every
day as a matter of choice or because he had to. An hour went by, and
when I finally awoke it was to see momma sitting by with folded hands
and an expression of much gratification while poppa gave a graphic
account of the rise and progress of the American baking-powder interest.
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