it chose, but would secrete, within the compass of its body, thoughts and wonderful passions of its own.  And this was the machine on which she and Mrs. Herriton and Philip and Harriet had for the last month been exercising their various ideals—­had determined that in time it should move this way or that way, should accomplish this and not that.  It was to be Low Church, it was to be high-principled, it was to be tactful, gentlemanly, artistic—­excellent things all.  Yet now that she saw this baby, lying asleep on a dirty rug, she had a great disposition not to dictate one of them, and to exert no more influence than there may be in a kiss or in the vaguest of the heartfelt prayers.

But she had practised self-discipline, and her thoughts and actions were not yet to correspond.  To recover her self-esteem she tried to imagine that she was in her district, and to behave accordingly.

“What a fine child, Signor Carella.  And how nice of you to talk to it.  Though I see that the ungrateful little fellow is asleep!  Seven months?  No, eight; of course eight.  Still, he is a remarkably fine child for his age.”

Italian is a bad medium for condescension.  The patronizing words came out gracious and sincere, and he smiled with pleasure.

“You must not stand.  Let us sit on the loggia, where it is cool.  I am afraid the room is very untidy,” he added, with the air of a hostess who apologizes for a stray thread on the drawing-room carpet.  Miss Abbott picked her way to the chair.  He sat near her, astride the parapet, with one foot in the loggia and the other dangling into the view.  His face was in profile, and its beautiful contours drove artfully against the misty green of the opposing hills.  “Posing!” said Miss Abbott to herself.  “A born artist’s model.”

“Mr. Herriton called yesterday,” she began, “but you were out.”

He started an elaborate and graceful explanation.  He had gone for the day to Poggibonsi.  Why had the Herritons not written to him, so that he could have received them properly?  Poggibonsi would have done any day; not but what his business there was fairly important.  What did she suppose that it was?

Naturally she was not greatly interested.  She had not come from Sawston to guess why he had been to Poggibonsi.  She answered politely that she had no idea, and returned to her mission.

“But guess!” he persisted, clapping the balustrade between his hands.

She suggested, with gentle sarcasm, that perhaps he had gone to Poggibonsi to find something to do.

He intimated that it was not as important as all that.  Something to do—­an almost hopeless quest!  “E manca questo!” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, to indicate that he had no money.  Then he sighed, and blew another smoke-ring.  Miss Abbott took heart and turned diplomatic.

“This house,” she said, “is a large house.”