ed, which happens now and then, who does it? I. I feed him, or
settle what he shall have. I sleep with him and comfort him when he is
unhappy in the night. No one talks, no one may sing to him but I. Do not
be unfair this time; I like to do these things. But nevertheless (his
voice became pathetic) they take up a great deal of time, and are not
all suitable for a young man."

"Not at all suitable," said Miss Abbott, and closed her eyes wearily.
Each moment her difficulties were increasing. She wished that she was
not so tired, so open to contradictory impressions. She longed for
Harriet's burly obtuseness or for the soulless diplomacy of Mrs.
Herriton.

"A little more wine?" asked Gino kindly.

"Oh, no, thank you! But marriage, Signor Carella, is a very serious
step. Could you not manage more simply? Your relative, for example--"

"Empoli! I would as soon have him in England!"

"England, then--"

He laughed.

"He has a grandmother there, you know--Mrs. Theobald."

"He has a grandmother here. No, he is troublesome, but I must have him
with me. I will not even have my father and mother too. For they would
separate us," he added.

"How?"

"They would separate our thoughts."

She was silent. This cruel, vicious fellow knew of strange refinements.
The horrible truth, that wicked people are capable of love, stood naked
before her, and her moral being was abashed. It was her duty to rescue
the baby, to save it from contagion, and she still meant to do her duty.
But the comfortable sense of virtue left her. She was in the presence of
something greater than right or wrong.

Forgetting that this was an interview, he had strolled back into the
room, driven by the instinct she had aroused in him. "Wake up!" he cried
to his baby, as if it was some grown-up friend. Then he lifted his foot
and trod lightly on its stomach.

Miss Abbott cried, "Oh, take care!" She was unaccustomed to this method
of awakening the young.

"He is not much longer than my boot, is he? Can you believe that in time
his own boots will be as large? And that he also--"

"But ought you to treat him like that?"

He stood with one foot resting on the little body, suddenly musing,
filled with the desire that his son should be like him, and should have
sons like him, to people the earth. It is the strongest desire that can
come to a man--if it comes to him at all--stronger even than love or the
desire for personal immortality. All men vaunt it, an