“May I help you to wash him?” she asked humbly.

He gave her his son without speaking, and they knelt side by side, tucking up their sleeves.  The child had stopped crying, and his arms and legs were agitated by some overpowering joy.  Miss Abbott had a woman’s pleasure in cleaning anything—­more especially when the thing was human.  She understood little babies from long experience in a district, and Gino soon ceased to give her directions, and only gave her thanks.

“It is very kind of you,” he murmured, “especially in your beautiful dress.  He is nearly clean already.  Why, I take the whole morning!  There is so much more of a baby than one expects.  And Perfetta washes him just as she washes clothes.  Then he screams for hours.  My wife is to have a light hand.  Ah, how he kicks!  Has he splashed you?  I am very sorry.”

“I am ready for a soft towel now,” said Miss Abbott, who was strangely exalted by the service.

“Certainly! certainly!” He strode in a knowing way to a cupboard.  But he had no idea where the soft towel was.  Generally he dabbed the baby on the first dry thing he found.

“And if you had any powder.”

He struck his forehead despairingly.  Apparently the stock of powder was just exhausted.

She sacrificed her own clean handkerchief.  He put a chair for her on the loggia, which faced westward, and was still pleasant and cool.  There she sat, with twenty miles of view behind her, and he placed the dripping baby on her knee.  It shone now with health and beauty:  it seemed to reflect light, like a copper vessel.  Just such a baby Bellini sets languid on his mother’s lap, or Signorelli flings wriggling on pavements of marble, or Lorenzo di Credi, more reverent but less divine, lays carefully among flowers, with his head upon a wisp of golden straw.  For a time Gino contemplated them standing.  Then, to get a better view, he knelt by the side of the chair, with his hands clasped before him.

So they were when Philip entered, and saw, to all intents and purposes, the Virgin and Child, with Donor.

“Hullo!” he exclaimed; for he was glad to find things in such cheerful trim.

She did not greet him, but rose up unsteadily and handed the baby to his father.

“No, do stop!” whispered Philip.  “I got your note.  I’m not offended; you’re quite right.  I really want you; I could never have done it alone.”

No words came from her, but she raised her hands to her mouth, like one who is in sudden agony.

“Signorina, do stop a little—­after all your kindness.”

She burst into tears.

“What is it?” said Philip kindly.

She tried to speak, and then went away weeping bitterly.

The two men stared at each other.  By a common impulse they ran on to the loggia.  They were just in time to see Miss Abbott disappear among the trees.