He was in the water. He felt it all around him—nearly up to his shoulders. He clung to Nicola and uttered shriek after shriek, he kicked and splashed and beat with his feet, the water leaped and foamed about him, and flew into his eyes and nose and mouth. “_Lasciatemi! Lasciatemi!_” (Let me go! Let me go!) he screamed. Nicholson tried her best to hold him. “My goodness!” she exclaimed, “I can’t manage him. He is like a little wildcat. Keep quiet, you naughty boy! Be still, you bad little pig, and let me wash you! Good gracious! what am I to do?” But Piccino would not be drowned without a struggle. To be held in water like that! to be suffocated by its splashing in his nose and mouth, and blinded by its dashing in his eyes! He fought with feet and teeth, used his head like a battering-ram, and shrieked and shrieked for aid. “_Io non ho fatto niente! Io non ho fatto niente!_ (I have done nothing.) Maria! Maria!” And the noise was so appalling that almost immediately footsteps were to be heard upon the stairs, swift movement in the corridor, and the bathroom door opened. It was Lady Aileen who came in, amazed, frowning, and rather alarmed. The girl friend who had wondered if Piccino would like his surroundings was with her. Piccino threw back his head at sight of them and battled and shrieked still more wildly. He thought they must have come to his aid. “_M’amazza! M’amazza! Aiuto!_” he wailed. “Bless me, what is the matter?” exclaimed Lady Aileen, and came towards the bath. “He doesn’t like to be washed, my lady,” panted Nicholson, struggling; “he seems quite frightened.” Suddenly Lady Aileen began to laugh. “Take him out for a moment, Nicholson,” she said, “take him out. Isobel,” to the girl, her words broken with laughter, “he thinks Nicholson is drowning him. Soap and water are such unknown quantities to him that he thinks that in this proportion they mean death.” Nicholson had lifted her charge out at once, only too glad of the respite. Piccino stood, wet and quaking and sobbing, by the bathtub. Lady Aileen began to take off her gloves and bracelets. “Give _me_ an apron,” she said to Nicholson. And on having one handed to her she tied it over her dress and knelt down before her new plaything. “Little imbecile,” she said in Italian, taking hold of his wet shoulders, “no one is going to hurt you. You are only going to be made clean. You are too dirty to be touched, and the water will wash the dirt off.” Piccino only looked up at her, sobbing. At least, she had had him taken out of the great pool; but what did she mean by wanting his dirt removed by such appalling means?