"Forgive me, signora," he then said, "but I must tell you that I think this is a crisis for your husband as well as for your son."
Sophy turned suddenly and hid her face against the back of her chair.
The tired, kind eyes of Camenis looked at the bent head compassionately. After another pause, he said:
"I think—as a physician—if you could go to him—gently—he would confess and try once more to—to be what you would have him be, signora."
Then Sophy broke down and wept like a desperate child.
"I can't! Oh, I can't!" she sobbed. "You don't know.... I can't bear even the memory of his face—his voice! How am I to go to him? I can't! I can't!"
The little doctor's face looked very worn as he sat watching her, while she clung to the big, ugly chair as to a rock of refuge, clutching it with her white hands that had grown thin in this one week of Bobby's illness—staining its gay chintz cover with her tears. Suddenly he rose, and went over to her.
"Bambina ... bambina ..." he said tenderly, "when you have saved him, you will love him. We always love what we have saved."
He just touched her hair softly, once, as a father would have done.
"Coraggio ..." he murmured, in his kind, faded voice. Then he left her.