chance she had fallen asleep. But
the dark eyes were always wide open, fixed on the bright green
wallpaper.

"Poor girl," thought the Marchesa. "Poor Marco ... she loved her husband
deeply, in spite of all. There may be brain fever unless I can make her
cry in some way."

At dawn Sophy was still stretched there moveless, her eyes on the green
wall behind which Cecil lay in cold, aloof content.

Robins began their sweet autumnal piping in the hotel garden. A thought
came to the Marchesa. Babies waked with birds. She rose softly, and
slipped out into the hall. Rosa and Bobby had been given a room just
opposite. The Marchesa entered without knocking. The wisdom of the old
nurse in the song was in her heart. As she had thought, the boy was
awake. He was sitting up in bed, his short red curls tousled, the
sleeves of his blue flannel dressing-gown that came far down over his
hands, evidently annoying him, for he tugged at them impatiently. He was
trying to make two fiercely moustachioed tin soldiers do battle on the
pillow that Rosa had laid before him. Every time that one soldier would
almost clash swords with the other, down would come the sleeves like a
curtain, extinguishing the warriors.

"Bad teeves!" he was scolding them as the Marchesa entered. "_Pias minga
a mi_" (You don't please me). He had picked up much dialect since coming
to the Lake. Rosa, who also waked with the birds, and who, attired in a
red flannel petticoat and cotton under-body, was washing her face in a
corner of the room, kept murmuring, "_Pazienza, tousin, pazienza._"

She looked up as the Marchesa entered, horrified to be found by a
_Sciora_ in such attire. But the Marchesa did not glance at her. She
went straight to Bobby.

He greeted her joyously.

"My 'ady! Take off!" he cried, holding up his muffled hands.

The Marchesa talked with him for about twenty minutes, then she lifted
him, all subdued and piteous, into her arms, and carried him to his
mother. The sun had now risen and that green light as of watery depths
again filled the room.

The Marchesa put the boy down beside Sophy without a word. She did not
look at him, but her arm went round him. Bobby snuggled close, then
lifted his head and gazed into her white face. He began "pooring" it
with his little hand. The Marchesa had turned back the bothersome
sleeves. Then he knelt up to see her better.

"Poor dada ... dwownded...." he murmured, caressing her cheek. "Poor
muvvah ... al