"Oh, yes; he has. He will never give it up."
"At present it is still unsettled."
"It will never be settled."
"Perhaps not. Well, as I said, I know what has happened, and I am not here to scold you. But I must ask you to withdraw from the thing for the present. Harriet is furious. But she will calm down when she realizes that you have done us no harm, and will do none."
"I can do no more," she said. "But I tell you plainly I have changed sides."
"If you do no more, that is all we want. You promise not to prejudice our cause by speaking to Signor Carella?"
"Oh, certainly. I don’t want to speak to him again; I shan’t ever see him again."
"Quite nice, wasn’t he?"
"Quite."
"Well, that’s all I wanted to know. I’ll go and tell Harriet of your promise, and I think things’ll quiet down now."
But he did not move, for it was an increasing pleasure to him to be near her, and her charm was at its strongest today. He thought less of psychology and feminine reaction. The gush of sentimentalism which had carried her away had only made her more alluring. He was content to observe her beauty and to profit by the tenderness and the wisdom that dwelt within her.
"Why aren’t you angry with me?" she asked, after a pause.
"Because I understand you—all sides, I think,—Harriet, Signor Carella, even my mother."
"You do understand wonderfully. You are the only one of us who has a general view of the muddle."
He smiled with pleasure. It was the first time she had ever praised him. His eyes rested agreeably on Santa Deodata, who was dying in full sanctity, upon her back. There was a window open behind her, revealing just such a view as he had seen that morning, and on her widowed mother’s dresser there stood just such another copper pot. The saint looked neither at the view nor at the pot, and at her widowed mother still less. For lo! she had a vision: the head and shoulders of St. Augustine were sliding like some miraculous enamel along the rough–cast wall. It is a gentle saint who is content with half another saint to see her die. In her death, as in her life, Santa Deodata did not accomplish much.
"So what are you going to do?" said Miss Abbott.
Philip started, not so much at the words as at the sudden change in the voice. "Do?" he echoed, rather dismayed. "This afternoon I have another interview."
"It will come to nothing. Well?"
"Then another. If that fails I shall wire home for instructions. I dare say we may fail altogether, but we shall fail honourably."
She had often been decided. But now behind her decision there was a note of passion. She struck him not as different, but as more important, and he minded it very much when she said—
"That’s not doing anything! You would be doing something if you kidnapped the baby, or if you went straight away. But that! To fail honourably! To come out of the thing as well as you can! Is that all you are after?"
"Why, yes," he stammered. "Since we talk openly, that is all I am after just now. What else is there? If I can persuade Signor Carella to give in, so much the better. If he won’t, I must report the failure to my mother and then go home. Why, Miss Abbott, you can’t expect me to follow you through all these turns—"
"I don’t! But I do expect you to settle what is right and to follow that. Do you want the child to stop with his father, who loves him and will bring him up badly, or do you want him to come to Sawston, where no one loves him, but where he will be brought up well? There is the question put dispassionately enough even for you. Settle it. Settle which side you’ll fight on. But don’t go talking about an 'honourable failure,' which means simply not thinking and not acting at all."
"Because I understand the position of Signor Carella and of you, it’s no reason that—"
