"I can't. Anthony says luxury is bred in my bone, but then he doesn't even care for comforts. I believe he had just as soon eat turnip-salad on a plain deal table as sweetbreads on Irish damask."
"Life teaches us the pettiness of such things," said Miss Ramsey. "When one isn't sure one will get a dinner at all, one is not apt to worry about the possible serving. By-the-way, Mr. Nevins wants to paint the baby when it gets a little larger."
Mariana looked delighted.
"Of course he shall," she said; then she took the child from the nurse's arms and gave it into Miss Ramsey's. "Feel how light she is," she continued. "I know she isn't very pretty, but she is beautifully formed—nurse says so—and did you ever see one with quite so much expression?"
Miss Ramsey held it upon her knee, patting its flexible back with one timid hand. "I really believe it notices things," she said. "It is looking straight at you."
"Of course it does," Mariana answered. "Of course it knows its own blessed little mamma—doesn't it, Isolde?"
The child whimpered and squirmed upon Miss Ramsey's knee.
"Take it, nurse," said Mariana. "It doesn't look nice when it cries."
A week later Mr. Speares came, and was introduced to the baby as it lay in its crib. He leaned over it in the helpless inattention of a man who has a mortal terror of a human being during the first stages of its development.
"It looks very pleasant," he said, finally.