He pushed back his chair as he spoke, and rose from the table. He
hesitated a moment, as if some sudden thought absorbed him, then he
went to his wife and kissed her forehead.

"Good-by," he said. "I sha'n't come up for lunch. Don't coddle the boy
too much."

"But when," his wife persisted, as he turned away, "shall I see Mrs.
Greyson? I want to show her the _bambino_."

She always spoke in Italian to her husband and her child, and indeed
her English had never been of the most fluent.

"The _bambino_" the father repeated, smiling. "He will be a _bambino_
to you when he is as big as I am, I suppose. I do not know about Mrs.
Greyson, but I will find out, if I can."

He left the room and went to the chamber where his swarthy boy of five
lay still luxuriously in his crib, although he was fully awake. Nino
gave a soft cry of joy at the sight of his father, and greeted him
rapturously.

"Papa," he asked in Italian, "does the kitty know how much she hurts
when she scratches? she made a long place on my arm, and it hurt like
fire."

"Do you know how much you hurt her to make her do it?" his father
returned, smiling fondly.

"Oh, but she is so soft and so little, of course I don't hurt her,"