“I shall owe fame and fortune to you, if ever I am famous or rich,” said Lisa, seating herself on a low stool by the window, in the full afternoon sunlight, basking in the brightness and warmth.
“What has become of Paolo?” asked Vansittart, looking round the room, where some scattered toys reminded him of the child’s existence.
“Paolo has gone to tea with the lady on the top floor. She has three little girls and a boy, and they all love el puttelo. They let him play with their toys and pull their hair. Hark! there they go.”
A wild gallop of little feet across the ceiling testified to the animation of the party.
“He has been there all the afternoon. He is a bold, bad boy, and so full of mischief,” said Lisa, with evident pride. “He is very big for his age, people say, and as active as a monkey. You must go and fetch him directly you have had your tea, Carina mia,” she added to her aunt. “He has been with those children nearly two hours. He will be awake all night with excitement.”
“Is he excitable?” asked Vansittart, who felt a new and painful interest in this child of a nameless parent.
“Oh, he is terrible. He is ready to jump out of the window when he is happy. He throws himself down on the floor, and kicks and screams till he is black in the face, when he is not allowed to do what he likes. He is only a baby, and yet he is our master. That is because he is a man, I suppose. We were created to be your slaves, were we not, Si’or mio? La Zia spoils him.”
La Zia protested that the boy was a cherub, an angel. He wanted nothing in life but his own way. And he was so strong, so big, and so beautiful that people turned in the streets to look at him.
“Among all the children in Battersea Park I have never seen his equal. And he is not yet three years old. He fought with a boy of six, and sent him away howling. He is a marvel.”
“When he is old enough I shall send him to a gymnasium,” said Lisa. “I want him to be an athlete, like his father. He told me once that he won cups and prizes at the University by his strength. Oh, how white you have turned!” she cried, distressed at the ghastly change in Vansittart’s face. “I forgot. I forgot. I ought not to have spoken of him. I never will speak of him again. We will forget that he ever existed.”