"
"Hush!"
"I don't mind if I do wake him up. I want to see him.
I've as much right in him as you."
Harriet gave in. But it was too dark for him to see the
child's face. "Wait a minute," he whispered, and before she
could stop him he had lit a match under the shelter of her
umbrella. "But he's awake!" he exclaimed. The match went out.
"Good ickle quiet boysey, then."
Philip winced. "His face, do you know, struck me as all
wrong."
"All wrong?"
"All puckered queerly."
"Of course--with the shadows--you couldn't see him."
"Well, hold him up again." She did so. He lit another
match. It went out quickly, but not before he had seen that
the baby was crying.
"Nonsense," said Harriet sharply. "We should hear him
if he cried."
"No, he's crying hard; I thought so before, and I'm
certain now."
Harriet touched the child's face. It was bathed in
tears. "Oh, the night air, I suppose," she said, "or
perhaps the wet of the rain."
"I say, you haven't hurt it, or held it the wrong way,
or anything; it is too uncanny--crying and no noise. Why
didn't you get Perfetta to carry it to the hotel instead of
muddling with the messenger? It's a marvel he understood
about the note."
"Oh, he understands." And he could feel her shudder.
"He tried to carry the baby--"
"But why not Gino or Perfetta?"
"Philip, don't talk. Must I say it again? Don't talk.
The baby wants to sleep." She crooned harshly as they
descended, and now and then she wiped up the tears which
welled inexhaustibly from the little eyes.
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