He stood with one foot resting on the little body, suddenly musing, filled with the desire that his son should be like him, and should have sons like him, to people the earth.It is the strongest desire that can come to a man--if it comes to him at all--stronger even than love or the desire for personal immortality.All men vaunt it, and declare that it is theirs; but the hearts of most are set elsewhere.
It is the exception who comprehends that physical and spiritual life may stream out of him for ever.Miss Abbott, for all her goodness, could not comprehend it, though such a thing is more within the comprehension of women.And when Gino pointed first to himself and then to his baby and said "father-son," she still took it as a piece of nursery prattle, and smiled mechanically.
The child, the first fruits, woke up and glared at her.Gino did not greet it, but continued the exposition of his policy.
"This woman will do exactly what I tell her.
She is fond of children.She is clean; she has a pleasant voice.
She is not beautiful; I cannot pretend that to you for a moment.
But she is what I require."
The baby gave a piercing yell.
"Oh, do take care!" begged Miss Abbott."You are squeezing it.
"It is nothing.If he cries silently then you may be frightened.He thinks I am going to wash him, and he is quite right.""Wash him!" she cried."You? Here?"
The homely piece of news seemed to shatter all her plans.She had spent a long half-hour in elaborate approaches, in high moral attacks;she had neither frightened her enemy nor made him angry, nor interfered with the least detail of his domestic life.
"I had gone to the Farmacia," he continued, "and was sitting there comfortably, when suddenly I remembered that Perfetta had heated water an hour ago--over there, look, covered with a cushion.
I came away at once, for really he must be washed.You must excuse me.I can put it off no longer.""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.
"Who would have believed his mother was blonde?
