es," he said, his face lighting. "On Lago Maggiore."

"Ah! I was sure of it! I'd thought of Como. Is your lake as beautiful as
Como?"

"I think it more beautiful. I believe you would think so, too. How I
should like to show it to you--the Lake and our old _Tenuta_. We have a
dear old place. I live there most of the time with my mother. We are
great friends, my mother and I."

"Ah! that is beautiful!" she said warmly. "That is what I want my son to
feel for me when he grows up."

Amaldi winced. He had not thought of her as having a child. It seemed to
set her still farther from him. He had for an instant an almost
overpowering sense of the bleakness of his lot. Like all Italians, he
adored children. He would never have a son. And now he learned suddenly
that she had a son--the child of another man.

"Ah," he said mechanically. "You have a son? Is he like you?"

"No; like himself. But some people think that his eyes are like mine.
You shall judge for yourself. Only, please don't be vexed if he doesn't
go to you at once. He's a funny mouse. He's rather stiff with
strangers."

The butler here brought in tea, and as Sophy finished pouring it, she
turned suddenly, exclaiming:

"I think that's my boy coming in now!"

She sprang up and, crossing the room with her light, joyous step, opened
the door before Amaldi could overtake her. When she turned again, her
little son was in her arms.

"You needn't wait, Miller," she said, over her shoulder, to the nurse.
"I'll send him up to you later."

The boy leaned with one arm about his mother's neck, his slim, polished
legs, emerging from white socks, hanging down against the soft curve of
her breast. His little face, grave and concentrated, regarded the
stranger with impartial attention.

Sophy seated herself, slipped off his quaint hat, and ran her hand over
the short dark red curls. It seemed to Amaldi that the white hand
quivered with ecstasy over the child's head like a white moth over a
flower. The boy was not beautiful, but he had his mother's eyes, though
he did not look like his mother.

"This is my little man ... this is Bobby," said Sophy, smiling from the
boy to Amaldi, and sliding the child from her knee upon his feet.

"You really mustn't mind if he isn't friendly--he doesn't seem to like
many people--and none, just at first."

Amaldi and the boy were looking gravely at each other. Suddenly Amaldi
smiled. His face seemed to put off a certain delicate mas