asked Teresa with a direct glance at him. "Do you really want me to dislike you?"
Ernesto shrugged his shoulders.
"It isn't for me to choose. You do dislike me, or at least you don't like me, which is the same thing, or worse. You threw me over in a minute when this dear friend appeared. Certainly, I am hurt."
His deep, impenetrable eyes rested upon her sentimentally, with something of mockery in their soft gaze. Teresa looked back at him curiously, wondering what his mind really was like, and feeling tolerably sure that it was a sink of iniquity. Or, rather, after all, he was a thorough Italian—what else could one expect him to think? … The worst was, that Nina would think as he did.
Next day Ronald was ill. The child had strayed into a patch of currant bushes and gorged himself, and his carefully guarded digestion had succumbed to the sudden shock; he was prostrated with fever. Teresa stayed beside him all day, banishing the nurse, to whom she had given a furious scolding. In the afternoon Ronald wanted to be amused, and tiring finally of the clay animals which Teresa was modelling for him, he demanded "the Man." This was his name for Crayven, for whom he had had, at first, a great liking. Crayven had given him a number of toys, and played with him
