“I have wasted your time,” she said feebly.
He walked sternly to the loggia and drew from it a large earthenware bowl. It was dirty inside; he dusted it with a tablecloth. Then he fetched the hot water, which was in a copper pot. He poured it out. He added cold. He felt in his pocket and brought out a piece of soap. Then he took up the baby, and, holding his cigar between his teeth, began to unwrap it. Miss Abbott turned to go.
“But why are you going? Excuse me if I wash him while we talk.”
“I have nothing more to say,” said Miss Abbott. All she could do now was to find Philip, confess her miserable defeat, and bid him go in her stead and prosper better. She cursed her feebleness; she longed to expose it, without apologies or tears.
“Oh, but stop a moment!” he cried. “You have not seen him yet.”
“I have seen as much as I want, thank you.”
The last wrapping slid off. He held out to her in his two hands a little kicking image of bronze.
“Take him!”
She would not touch the child.
“I must go at once,” she cried; for the tears—the wrong tears—were hurrying to her eyes.