f up in the sofa-corner among the cushions, she sat on
a stool by my feet as I read, one hand supporting her chin, the other
resting on my knee.

"I am glad he was a brave man," she said at last, alluding to Pasquale
for the first time since the morning. "I like brave men."

"_Dulce et decorum est._ He died for his country," said I.

"It does not hurt me now so much to think of him," said Carlotta.

I could not help feeling a miserable pang of jealousy at Pasquale's
posthumous rehabilitation as a hero in Carlotta's heart. Yet, was it not
natural? Was it not the way of women? I saw myself far remote from her,
and though she never spoke of him again I divined that her thoughts
dwelt not untenderly on his memory. I was absurd, I know. But I had
begun almost to believe in my make-believe paternity, and I was jealous
of the rightful claims of the dead man.

And yet had he lived he might have come back one day with his conquering
air and his irresistible laugh, and carried them both away from me. In
sparing me this crowning humiliation I thanked the high gods.

But never to this day has she mentioned his name again.

CHAPTER XXIV

How shall I set down that which happened not long afterwards?

The death of a baby is so commonplace, so unimportant. Few reasoning
people, viewing the matter in the abstract, can do otherwise than
rejoice that a human being is saved from the weariness of the tired
years that make up life. For who shall disprove the pessimist's
assertion that it is better not to have been born than to come into the
world, and that it is better to die than to live? But those from whom
the single hope of their existence is ravished find little consolation
in reason. Grief is the most intensely egotistical of emotions. I have
lost all that makes life beautiful to me. Is not that enough for the
stricken soul?

To Carlotta it meant a passage through the valley of the shadow. To me,
at first, it meant the life of Carlotta, and then a blank in my newly
ordered scheme of things. The curse of ineffectuality still pursued
me. I had allotted to myself my humble task--the development of the new
generation in the form of Carlotta's boy, and even that small usefulness
was I denied by Fate.

A chill, a touch of croup, an agonised watching, and the tiny thing lay
dead. Antoinette and I had to drag it stone cold from Carlotta's bosom.
I alone carried it to burial. The little white coffin rested on the
opposite