My remembering was interrupted by Mr Winningoes’s discreet touch at the door. The man entered holding a tray in a hand on which there were a stumpy teapot in porcelain and three handless cups, decorated with Chinese ideograms.
- «I apologize for leaving you alone for such a long time »–he said happily–«but to make tea is a very serious matter, that requires time and skill. Help yourselves please».
I filled with a lot of attention the three cups. George, taking one on his hand, gazed its outside and the inside for a long time. He seemed particularly interested at the small yellowish petals that floated on the surface.
«They are jasmine's flowers »–Mr Winningoes prevented him–«I get this tea directly from China. It is delicious, isn't it?» –he added turning to me, while I was trying to sip it slowly, in order not to burn me.
“Yes, certain. It is very tasteful '. Does the Chinese cuisine also like you? “–I returned him on my time.
«Oh, yes, indeed so much!» –he answered with a light flash on his face–«I remember when my son Adam was still alive.»
But suddenly we saw that flash of light illuminating his face transformed in a dark and sad countenance.
«My son Adam…»– he echoed bitterly himself, with a smile of self-pity on the pale lips.
We observed a respectful silence for the pain of that man who appeared at times a proud lion, full of projects for his future, to become instead afterward, a man tired of striving, bend by disgraces and by the time.
I wished I had mastered a better English to show him my solidarity and tell him that I didn't even know he had had some children, not even he had gotten married, forming a proper family; apart, of course, his father and mother, whom he had spoken of to us for long time throughout his story.
But who was really that strange man? Was it enough, to know him well, what he had told us himself rightly in that same day? I made an effort to collect my ideas recalling the story in his own words.
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