“The baby—?” She had forgotten it.
“It is an English marriage,” he said proudly. “I do not care about the money. I am having her for my son. Did you not understand that?”
“No,” said Miss Abbott, utterly bewildered. Then, for a moment, she saw light. “It is not necessary, Signor Carella. Since you are tired of the baby—”
Ever after she remembered it to her credit that she saw her mistake at once. “I don’t mean that,” she added quickly.
“I know,” was his courteous response. “Ah, in a foreign language (and how perfectly you speak Italian) one is certain to make slips.”
She looked at his face. It was apparently innocent of satire.
“You meant that we could not always be together yet, he and I. You are right. What is to be done? I cannot afford a nurse, and Perfetta is too rough. When he was ill I dare not let her touch him. When he has to be washed, which happens now and then, who does it? I. I feed him, or settle what he shall have. I sleep with him and comfort him when he is unhappy in the night. No one talks, no one may sing to him but I. Do not be unfair this time; I like to do these things. But nevertheless (his voice became pathetic) they take up a great deal of time, and are not all suitable for a young man.”
“Not at all suitable,” said Miss Abbott, and closed her eyes wearily. Each moment her difficulties were increasing. She wished that she was not so tired, so open to contradictory impressions. She longed for Harriet’s burly obtuseness or for the soulless diplomacy of Mrs. Herriton.
“A little more wine?” asked Gino kindly.
“Oh, no, thank you! But marriage, Signor Carella, is a very serious step. Could you not manage more simply? Your relative, for example—”