“Look here, Harriet,” he said at last, “I feel bad; I want to see the baby.”

“Hush!”

“I don’t mind if I do wake him up.  I want to see him.  I’ve as much right in him as you.”

Harriet gave in.  But it was too dark for him to see the child’s face.  “Wait a minute,” he whispered, and before she could stop him he had lit a match under the shelter of her umbrella.  “But he’s awake!” he exclaimed.  The match went out.

“Good ickle quiet boysey, then.”

Philip winced.  “His face, do you know, struck me as all wrong.”

“All wrong?”

“All puckered queerly.”

“Of course—­with the shadows—­you couldn’t see him.”

“Well, hold him up again.”  She did so.  He lit another match.  It went out quickly, but not before he had seen that the baby was crying.

“Nonsense,” said Harriet sharply.  “We should hear him if he cried.”

“No, he’s crying hard; I thought so before, and I’m certain now.”

Harriet touched the child’s face.  It was bathed in tears.  “Oh, the night air, I suppose,” she said, “or perhaps the wet of the rain.”

“I say, you haven’t hurt it, or held it the wrong way, or anything; it is too uncanny—­crying and no noise.  Why didn’t you get Perfetta to carry it to the hotel instead of muddling with the messenger?  It’s a marvel he understood about the note.”

“Oh, he understands.”  And he could feel her shudder.  “He tried to carry the baby—­”

“But why not Gino or Perfetta?”

“Philip, don’t talk.  Must I say it again?  Don’t talk.  The baby wants to sleep.”  She crooned harshly as they descended, and now and then she wiped up the tears which welled inexhaustibly from the little eyes.  Philip looked away, winking at times himself.  It was as if they were travelling with the whole world’s sorrow, as if all the mystery, all the persistency of woe were gathered to a single fount.  The roads were now coated with mud, and the carriage went more quietly but not less swiftly, sliding by long zigzags into the night.  He knew the landmarks pretty well:  here was the crossroad to Poggibonsi; and the last view of Monteriano, if they had light, would be from here.  Soon they ought to come to that little wood where violets were so plentiful in spring.  He wished the weather had not changed; it was not cold, but the air was extraordinarily damp.  It could not be good for the child.

“I suppose he breathes, and all that sort of thing?” he said.

“Of course,” said Harriet, in an angry whisper.  “You’ve started him again.  I’m certain he was asleep.  I do wish you wouldn’t talk; it makes me so nervous.”

“I’m nervous too.  I wish he’d scream.  It’s too uncanny.  Poor Gino!  I’m terribly sorry for Gino.”

“Are you?”

“Because he’s weak—­like most of us.  He doesn’t know what he wants.  He doesn’t grip on to life.  But I like that man, and I’m sorry for him.”