“Yes, but that is not enough. I don’t choose that this unpleasantness should go any further. Write a letter to him now—we will concoct it together—and—and—I will be nice to you.”
She smiled at him, and there was no shadow of fear or of regret in the blue eyes that looked towards the almost certain end.
“Well, I must be let down easily,” he said unwillingly. “I am not going to lick his boots.”
They sat down at the writing-table together, and she began to dictate. “Just scribble this, and if it does you can make a fair copy afterwards.
“‘Dear Monsieur Michelin,—On reflection I understand that your conduct this morning was justifiable from your point of view, and I withdraw—’”
Filippo laid down the pen. “I shall not say that.”
“Begin again then,” she said patiently.
“‘I have been asked to write to you by a third person whom I wish to please. She tells me that this morning’s unpleasantness resulted from a misunderstanding. She says she has deceived you, and she hopes that you will forgive her. I suppose from what she has said that your hasty action was excusable, as you thought her other than she is, and I think that you may now regret it and agree with me that this need go no farther—’”
“This is better for me,” he said.
“Yes.” She took the pen from him and wrote under his signature: “You will be sorry to know that your child is a liar. Try to forget her existence.”