He
respected Miss Abbott. He wished that she would respect
him. "So you do not advise me?" he said dolefully. "But
why should it be a failure?"
Miss Abbott tried to remember that he was really a child
still--a child with the strength and the passions of a
disreputable man. "How can it succeed," she said solemnly,
"where there is no love?"
"But she does love me! I forgot to tell you that."
"Indeed."
"Passionately." He laid his hand upon his own heart.
"Then God help her!"
He stamped impatiently. "Whatever I say displeases you,
Signorina. God help you, for you are most unfair. You say
that I ill-treated my dear wife. It is not so. I have
never ill-treated any one. You complain that there is no
love in this marriage. I prove that there is, and you
become still more angry. What do you want? Do you suppose
she will not be contented? Glad enough she is to get me,
and she will do her duty well."
"Her duty!" cried Miss Abbott, with all the bitterness
of which she was capable.
"Why, of course. She knows why I am marrying her."
"To succeed where Lilia failed! To be your housekeeper,
your slave, you--" The words she would like to have said
were too violent for her.
"To look after the baby, certainly," said he.
"The baby--?" She had forgotten it.
"It is an English marriage," he said proudly. "I do not
care about the money. I am having her for my son. Did you
not understand that?"
"No," said Miss Abbott, utterly bewildered.
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