“I don’t go by what I saw of him, but by what I know of him.”

“Well, what do you conclude from that?”

“That he is a thoroughly wicked man.”

“Yet thoroughly wicked men have loved their children.  Look at Rodrigo Borgia, for example.”

“I have also seen examples of that in my district.”

With this remark the admirable young woman rose, and returned to keep up her Italian.  She puzzled Philip extremely.  He could understand enthusiasm, but she did not seem the least enthusiastic.  He could understand pure cussedness, but it did not seem to be that either.  Apparently she was deriving neither amusement nor profit from the struggle.  Why, then, had she undertaken it?  Perhaps she was not sincere.  Perhaps, on the whole, that was most likely.  She must be professing one thing and aiming at another.  What the other thing could be he did not stop to consider.  Insincerity was becoming his stock explanation for anything unfamiliar, whether that thing was a kindly action or a high ideal.

“She fences well,” he said to his mother afterwards.

“What had you to fence about?” she said suavely.  Her son might know her tactics, but she refused to admit that he knew.  She still pretended to him that the baby was the one thing she wanted, and had always wanted, and that Miss Abbott was her valued ally.

And when, next week, the reply came from Italy, she showed him no face of triumph.  “Read the letters,” she said.  “We have failed.”

Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious English translation, where “Preghiatissima Signora” was rendered as “Most Praiseworthy Madam,” and every delicate compliment and superlative—­superlatives are delicate in Italian—­would have felled an ox.  For a moment Philip forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesque memorial of the land he had loved moved him almost to tears.  He knew the originals of these lumbering phrases; he also had sent “sincere auguries”; he also had addressed letters—­who writes at home? —­from the Caffe Garibaldi.  “I didn’t know I was still such an ass,” he thought.  “Why can’t I realize that it’s merely tricks of expression?  A bounder’s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano.”

“Isn’t it disheartening?” said his mother.

He then read that Gino could not accept the generous offer.  His paternal heart would not permit him to abandon this symbol of his deplored spouse.  As for the picture post-cards, it displeased him greatly that they had been obnoxious.  He would send no more.  Would Mrs. Herriton, with her notorious kindness, explain this to Irma, and thank her for those which Irma (courteous Miss!) had sent to him?

“The sum works out against us,” said Philip.  “Or perhaps he is putting up the price.”

“No,” said Mrs. Herriton decidedly.  “It is not that.  For some perverse reason he will not part with the child.  I must go and tell poor Caroline.  She will be equally distressed.”