“Yes, yes; bravo; give me a kiss and then go away directly, for I am busy—I have a devil in every hair and a thousand anxieties in my mind ... yes ... yes, so ... good-by, good-by.” And he almost pushed away mother and child with his two nervous, angry, almost threatening hands. The poor mother had not expected such a reception, and could not reconcile herself to it. “Do you know that Carlino has just said _Mamma_ for the first time, really, just now when he woke?” The father was silent and fretted, angry with himself because he could not and did not know how to call up a single affectionate word to his lips or a sole caress to his hands; all was dark before him, and everything so bitter that absinthe would have seemed honey to him. And to be obliged to be so hard with that touching picture before him! Oh, why had that woman come at such a moment? Why had he not locked himself in his office? The mother could not give in. She drew her lips to his scowling forehead, but he did not draw down those lips to his; he simply touched her cheek coldly. That kiss was an insult; he was ice; he was brutal. She felt a lump in her throat, which broke into a sob. “Yes, yes, let us go away. We will not come again to trouble you.” He got up hurriedly and went to the window, but did not open it. He put his hands through his hair and exclaimed aloud: “Bless the women! they never understand anything; they come into the office, interrupt one’s work, and oblige one to be harsh to those one loves best. And yet they pretend to be our equals.” He continued his panegyric on women alone, for mother and child had disappeared, both crying, the mother mortally offended by the double blow—the one to the wife’s heart, the other to the mother’s. The child screamed, frightened at the cruel scene which he appeared to feel, if he did not understand. Sobs and cries lasted some time, and were heard through the wall in the office, making a savage harmony with the bursts of impatience of the angry director of the factory. ⁂ “Do you know, dear, the Marquis of Bellavista came into our box at the theatre yesterday evening?” “What did he want? I did not know he was in Florence.” “Neither did I.” “Um!” “I thought he was still in Naples; but he told me he was staying a day or two in Florence on his way to the races at Milan, and seeing me in the box, he came up to shake hands with me.” “I hope you were rude to him, so that he will not be tempted to come and see you a second time.” “Rude, no! but cold. You can ask your mother, who was present at the time.” “I can’t believe that you had not seen him before during the day, when you were out, or perhaps here at home. You tell me now that you have seen him at the theatre because a hundred others might tell me, and you wished to forestall them.” “But this is a gratuitous insult, unjust, cruel! I do not think I have ever given you reason to doubt my loyalty.”