“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, and declare that it is theirs; but the hearts of most are set elsewhere.  It is the exception who comprehends that physical and spiritual life may stream out of him for ever.  Miss Abbott, for all her goodness, could not comprehend it, though such a thing is more within the comprehension of women.  And when Gino pointed first to himself and then to his baby and said “father-son,” she still took it as a piece of nursery prattle, and smiled mechanically.

The child, the first fruits, woke up and glared at her.  Gino did not greet it, but continued the exposition of his policy.

“This woman will do exactly what I tell her.  She is fond of children.  She is clean; she has a pleasant voice.  She is not beautiful; I cannot pretend that to you for a moment.  But she is what I require.”