Miss Abbott tried to remember that he was really a child still—a child with the strength and the passions of a disreputable man. “How can it succeed,” she said solemnly, “where there is no love?”
“But she does love me! I forgot to tell you that.”
“Indeed.”
“Passionately.” He laid his hand upon his own heart.
“Then God help her!”
He stamped impatiently. “Whatever I say displeases you, Signorina. God help you, for you are most unfair. You say that I ill-treated my dear wife. It is not so. I have never ill-treated any one. You complain that there is no love in this marriage. I prove that there is, and you become still more angry. What do you want? Do you suppose she will not be contented? Glad enough she is to get me, and she will do her duty well.”
“Her duty!” cried Miss Abbott, with all the bitterness of which she was capable.
“Why, of course. She knows why I am marrying her.”
“To succeed where Lilia failed! To be your housekeeper, your slave, you—” The words she would like to have said were too violent for her.
“To look after the baby, certainly,” said he.