Abruptly she desisted, recoiled, and turned and fled up-stairs. Lucia watched in fascination as Isobella nodded at her, only three years older than she, nursing her son with a contented smile upon her face. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. She had nothing to say for herself. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult. "Because I shouldn't like to be out o' the vay ven he arrives," returned Abraham, in a jeering tone; "it vouldn't be vell bred.
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