He thrust his hands into his trousers' pockets and slouched moodily up and down the studio. It had been a most unpleasant day for him, the culminating point of many, and the worst of it was he had come out of it with anything but flying colours. The curious part of it was that he felt weak, back-boneless, his rage had burnt itself out—for the time. He could not understand it. He lit a toscano and chewed it meditatively as he marched up and down. The fact was that the interview with Ferrati had cowed him; like all bullies he was a coward at heart and his friend's fearless condemnation had as effectually crushed him as physical chastisement would have done. He had met one stronger than himself, and was obliged to recognize the fact. In an astonishingly mild humour, he awaited events.
CHAPTER XIII
Ferrati found the children in bed, reeking of the arnica with which Carolina and Assunta had been bathing their bruises.
"Signor Dottore!" cried Carolina, as he entered, "their poor little bodies are striped like zebras! If the Santissima Madonna and Gesù Bambino had not protected them they would have been killed!"
Both children burst out sobbing at this rehearsal of their woes, and Ferrati had some ado to make himself heard.
"Now then! Now then!" he said, "there will be a treat to-morrow for good boys who don't cry! Be little men, don't let these women see you sobbing like babies!" He waved his hand laughingly "Who's my good boy? Let us see which of you can stop first!"
"I want my mammina!" sobbed Mimmo.
"I wants her too!" echoed Beppino.
"Ah, già, where is the Signora?" Ferrati asked turning to Assunta.