He too began to tremble. Then he turned and looked curiously at Philip, whose face, covered with dust and foam, was visible by the stove. Miss Abbott allowed him to get up, though she still held him firmly. He gave a loud and curious cry—a cry of interrogation it might be called. Below there was the noise of Perfetta returning with the baby’s milk.
“Go to him,” said Miss Abbott, indicating Philip. “Pick him up. Treat him kindly.”
She released him, and he approached Philip slowly. His eyes were filling with trouble. He bent down, as if he would gently raise him up.
“Help! help!” moaned Philip. His body had suffered too much from Gino. It could not bear to be touched by him.
Gino seemed to understand. He stopped, crouched above him. Miss Abbott herself came forward and lifted her friend in her arms.
“Oh, the foul devil!” he murmured. “Kill him! Kill him for me.”
Miss Abbott laid him tenderly on the couch and wiped his face. Then she said gravely to them both, “This thing stops here.”
“Latte! latte!” cried Perfetta, hilariously ascending the stairs.
“Remember,” she continued, “there is to be no revenge. I will have no more intentional evil. We are not to fight with each other any more.”
“I shall never forgive him,” sighed Philip.