I remained there with Mrs. Ambient, though even our exchange of twaddle had run very thin. The boy’s little fixed white face seemed, as before, to plead with me to stay, and after a while it produced still another effect, a very curious one, which I shall find it difficult to express. Of course I expose myself to the charge of an attempt to justify by a strained logic after the fact a step which may have been on my part but the fruit of a native want of discretion; and indeed the traceable consequences of that perversity were too lamentable to leave me any desire to trifle with the question. All I can say is that I acted in perfect good faith and that Dolcino’s friendly little gaze gradually kindled the spark of my inspiration. What helped it to glow were the other influences—the silent suggestive garden-nook, the perfect opportunity (if it was not an opportunity for that it was an opportunity for nothing) and the plea I speak of, which issued from the child’s eyes and seemed to make him say: “The mother who bore me and who presses me here to her bosom—sympathetic little organism that I am—has really the kind of sensibility she has been represented to you as lacking, if you only look for it patiently and respectfully. How is it conceivable she shouldn’t have it? How is it possible that _I_ should have so much of it—for I’m quite full of it, dear strange gentleman—if it weren’t also in some degree in her? I’m my great father’s child, but I’m also my beautiful mother’s, and I’m sorry for the difference between them!” So it shaped itself before me, the vision of reconciling Mrs. Ambient with her husband, of putting an end to their ugly difference. The project was absurd of course, for had I not had his word for it—spoken with all the bitterness of experience—that the gulf dividing them was well-nigh bottomless? Nevertheless, a quarter of an hour after Mark had left us, I observed to my hostess that I couldn’t get over what she had told me the night before about her thinking her husband’s compositions “objectionable.” I had been so very sorry to hear it, had thought of it constantly and wondered whether it mightn’t be possible to make her change her mind. She gave me a great cold stare, meant apparently as an admonition to me to mind my business. I wish I had taken this mute counsel, but I didn’t take it. I went on to remark that it seemed an immense pity so much that was interesting should be lost on her. “Nothing’s lost upon me,” she said in a tone that didn’t make the contradiction less. “I know they’re very interesting.” “Don’t you like papa’s books?” Dolcino asked, addressing his mother but still looking at me. Then he added to me: “Won’t you read them to me, American gentleman?” “I’d rather tell you some stories of my own,” I said. “I know some that are awfully good.” “When will you tell them? To-morrow?” “To-morrow with pleasure, if that suits you.”