fused to admit that he knew. She still pretended to
him that the baby was the one thing she wanted, and had always wanted,
and that Miss Abbott was her valued ally.

And when, next week, the reply came from Italy, she showed him no face
of triumph. "Read the letters," she said. "We have failed."

Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious
English translation, where "Preghiatissima Signora" was rendered
as "Most Praiseworthy Madam," and every delicate compliment and
superlative--superlatives are delicate in Italian--would have felled an
ox. For a moment Philip forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesque
memorial of the land he had loved moved him almost to tears. He knew
the originals of these lumbering phrases; he also had sent "sincere
auguries"; he also had addressed letters--who writes at home?--from the
Caffe Garibaldi. "I didn't know I was still such an ass," he thought.
"Why can't I realize that it's merely tricks of expression? A bounder's
a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano."

"Isn't it disheartening?" said his mother.

He then read that Gino could not accept the generous offer. His paternal
heart would not permit him to abandon this symbol of his deplored
spouse. As for the picture post-cards, it displeased him greatly that
they had been obnoxious. He would send no more. Would Mrs. Herriton,
with her notorious kindness, explain this to Irma, and thank her for
those which Irma (courteous Miss!) had sent to him?

"The sum works out against us," said Philip. "Or perhaps he is putting
up the price."

"No," said Mrs. Herriton decidedly. "It is not that. For some perverse
reason he will not part with the child. I must go and tell poor
Caroline. She will be equally distressed."

She returned from the visit in the most extraordinary condition. Her
face was red, she panted for breath, there were dark circles round her
eyes.

"The impudence!" she shouted. "The cursed impudence! Oh, I'm swearing.
I don't care. That beastly woman--how dare she interfere--I'll--Philip,
dear, I'm sorry. It's no good. You must go."

"Go where? Do sit down. What's happened?" This outburst of violence from
his elegant ladylike mother pained him dreadfully. He had not known that
it was in her.

"She won't accept--won't accept the letter as final. You must go to
Monteriano!"

"I won't!" he shouted back. "I've been and I've failed. I'll never see
the place again. I hate Italy."

"If