sister-in-law had a quarter of an hour before been called by the nurse to see Dolcino, who appeared to be a little feverish. “Feverish! how in the world does he come to be feverish?” Ambient asked. “He was perfectly well this afternoon.” “Beatrice says you walked him about too much--you almost killed him.” “Beatrice must be very happy--she has an opportunity to triumph!” Mark Ambient said, with a laugh of which the bitterness was just perceptible. “Surely not if the child is ill,” I ventured to remark, by way of pleading for Mrs. Ambient. “My dear fellow, you are not married--you don’t know the nature of wives!” my host exclaimed. “Possibly not; but I know the nature of mothers.” “Beatrice is perfect as a mother,” said Miss Ambient, with a tremendous sigh and her fingers interlaced on her embroidered knees. “I shall go up and see the child,” her brother went on. “Do you suppose he’s asleep?” “Beatrice won’t let you see him, Mark,” said the young lady, looking at me, though she addressed, our companion. “Do you call that being perfect as a mother?” Ambient inquired. “Yes, from her point of view.” “Damn her point of view!” cried the author of _Beltraffio_. And he left the room; after which we heard him ascend the stairs. I sat there for some ten minutes with Miss Ambient, and we naturally had some conversation, which was begun, I think, by my asking her what the point of view of her sister-in-law could be. “Oh, it’s so very odd,” she said. “But we are so very odd, altogether. Don’t you find us so? We have lived so much abroad. Have you people like us in America?” “You are not all alike, surely; so that I don’t think I understand your question. We have no one like your brother--I may go so far as that.” “You have probably more persons like his wife,” said Miss Ambient, smiling. “I can tell you that better when you have told me about her point of view.” “Oh, yes--oh, yes. Well, she does n’t like his ideas. She doesn’t like them for the child. She thinks them undesirable.” Being quite fresh from the contemplation of some of Mark Ambient’s _arcana_, I was particularly in a position to appreciate this announcement. But the effect of it was to make me, after staring a moment, burst into laughter, which I instantly checked when I remembered that there was a sick child above. “What has that infant to do with ideas?” I asked “Surely, he can’t tell one from another. Has he read his father’s novels?” “He’s very precocious and very sensitive, and his mother thinks she can’t begin to guard him too early.” Miss Ambient’s head drooped a little to one side, and her eyes fixed themselves on futurity. Then suddenly there was a strange alteration in her face; she gave a smile that was more joyless than her gravity--a conscious, insincere smile, and added, “When one has children, it’s a great responsibility--what one writes.” “Children are terrible critics,” I answered. “I am rather glad I have n’t got any.”