"Is it your son?" I inquired, feeling the question not to be
brilliant.

"Yes, my only child. He's always in his mother's pocket. She
coddles him too much." It came back to me afterwards too--the sound
of these critical words. They weren't petulant; they expressed
rather a sudden coldness, a mechanical submission. We went a few
steps further, and then he stopped short and called the boy,
beckoning to him repeatedly.

"Dolcino, come and see your daddy!" There was something in the way
he stood still and waited that made me think he did it for a purpose.
Mrs. Ambient had her arm round the child's waist, and he was leaning
against her knee; but though he moved at his father's call she gave
no sign of releasing him. A lady, apparently a neighbour, was
seated near her, and before them was a garden-table on which a tea-
service had been placed.

Mark Ambient called again, and Dolcino struggled in the maternal
embrace; but, too tightly held, he after two or three fruitless
efforts jerked about and buried his head deep in his mother's lap.
There was a certain awkwardness in the scene; I thought it odd Mrs.
Ambient should pay so little attention to her husband. But I
wouldn't for the world have betrayed my thought, and, to conceal it,
I began loudly to rejoice in the prospect of our having tea in the
garden. "Ah she won't let him come!" said my host with a sigh; and
we went our way till we reached the two ladies. He mentioned my
name to his wife, and I noticed that he addressed her as "My dear,"
very genially, without a trace of resentment at her detention of the