“To-morrow? Find out whether he has any other relations except that drunken brute; and if not, I suppose I must follow Mme. Reni's advice, and take him to the Refuge. Perhaps the kindest thing to do would be to put a stone round his neck and pitch him into the river there; but that would expose me to unpleasant consequences. Fast asleep! What an odd little lump of ill-luck you are, you mite--not half as capable of defending yourself as a stray cat!” When Katie brought in the tea-tray, the boy opened his eyes and sat up with a bewildered air. Recognizing the Gadfly, whom he already regarded as his natural protector, he wriggled off the sofa, and, much encumbered by the folds of his blanket, came up to nestle against him. He was by now sufficiently revived to be inquisitive; and, pointing to the mutilated left hand, in which the Gadfly was holding a piece of cake, asked: “What's that?” “That? Cake; do you want some? I think you've had enough for now. Wait till to-morrow, little man.” “No--that!” He stretched out his hand and touched the stumps of the amputated fingers and the great scar on the wrist. The Gadfly put down his cake. “Oh, that! It's the same sort of thing as what you have on your shoulder--a hit I got from someone stronger than I was.” “Didn't it hurt awfully?” “Oh, I don't know--not more than other things. There, now, go to sleep again; you have no business asking questions at this time of night.” When the carriage arrived the boy was again asleep; and the Gadfly, without awaking him, lifted him gently and carried him out on to the stairs. “You have been a sort of ministering angel to me to-day,” he said to Gemma, pausing at the door. “But I suppose that need not prevent us from quarrelling to our heart's content in future.” “I have no desire to quarrel with anyone.” “Ah! but I have. Life would be unendurable without quarrels. A good quarrel is the salt of the earth; it's better than a variety show!” And with that he went downstairs, laughing softly to himself, with the sleeping child in his arms. CHAPTER VII. ONE day in the first week of January Martini, who had sent round the forms of invitation to the monthly group-meeting of the literary committee, received from the Gadfly a laconic, pencil-scrawled “Very sorry: can't come.” He was a little annoyed, as a notice of “important business” had been put into the invitation; this cavalier treatment seemed to him almost insolent. Moreover, three separate letters containing bad news arrived during the day, and the wind was in the east, so that Martini felt out of sorts and out of temper; and when, at the group meeting, Dr. Riccardo asked, “Isn't Rivarez here?” he answered rather sulkily: “No; he seems to have got something more interesting on hand, and can't come, or doesn't want to.”