"I wonder what she will say to Nino," she said musingly, her voice taking a new softness.
A sudden spasm contracted the sculptor's throat. His whole being was shaken by the return of the woman to whom all the passionate devotion of his manhood was given, and he never heard that soft, maternal note with which his wife spoke of his boy without emotion.
"She may say that the young rascal ought to be out of his bed in time for breakfast," he retorted with affected brusqueness. "He has all the Italian laziness in him."
He pushed back his chair as he spoke, and rose from the table. He hesitated a moment, as if some sudden thought absorbed him, then he went to his wife and kissed her forehead.
"Good-by," he said. "I sha'n't come up for lunch. Don't coddle the boy too much."
"But when," his wife persisted, as he turned away, "shall I see Mrs.
Greyson? I want to show her the bambino."
She always spoke in Italian to her husband and her child, and indeed her English had never been of the most fluent.
"The bambino" the father repeated, smiling. "He will be a bambino to you when he is as big as I am, I suppose. I do not know about Mrs. Greyson, but I will find out, if I can."
He left the room and went to the chamber where his swarthy boy of five lay still luxuriously in his crib, although he was fully awake. Nino gave a soft cry of joy at the sight of his father, and greeted him rapturously.
"Papa," he asked in Italian, "does the kitty know how much she hurts when she scratches? she made a long place on my arm, and it hurt like fire."