Philip drummed on the bedroom window-sill.  He saw no escape from the deadlock.  For though he spoke cheerfully about his second interview with Gino, he felt at the bottom of his heart that it would fail.  Gino was too courteous:  he would not break off negotiations by sharp denial; he loved this civil, half-humorous bargaining.  And he loved fooling his opponent, and did it so nicely that his opponent did not mind being fooled.

“Miss Abbott has behaved extraordinarily,” he said at last; “but at the same time—­”

His sister would not hear him.  She burst forth again on the madness, the interference, the intolerable duplicity of Caroline.

“Harriet, you must listen.  My dear, you must stop crying.  I have something quite important to say.”

“I shall not stop crying,” said she.  But in time, finding that he would not speak to her, she did stop.

“Remember that Miss Abbott has done us no harm.  She said nothing to him about the matter.  He assumes that she is working with us:  I gathered that.”

“Well, she isn’t.”

“Yes; but if you’re careful she may be.  I interpret her behaviour thus:  She went to see him, honestly intending to get the child away.  In the note she left me she says so, and I don’t believe she’d lie.”

“I do.”

“When she got there, there was some pretty domestic scene between him and the baby, and she has got swept off in a gush of sentimentalism.  Before very long, if I know anything about psychology, there will be a reaction.  She’ll be swept back.”

“I don’t understand your long words.  Say plainly—­”

“When she’s swept back, she’ll be invaluable.  For she has made quite an impression on him.  He thinks her so nice with the baby.  You know, she washed it for him.”

“Disgusting!”

Harriet’s ejaculations were more aggravating than the rest of her.  But Philip was averse to losing his temper.  The access of joy that had come to him yesterday in the theatre promised to be permanent.  He was more anxious than heretofore to be charitable towards the world.

“If you want to carry off the baby, keep your peace with Miss Abbott.  For if she chooses, she can help you better than I can.”

“There can be no peace between me and her,” said Harriet gloomily.

“Did you—­”

“Oh, not all I wanted.  She went away before I had finished speaking—­just like those cowardly people! —­into the church.”

“Into Santa Deodata’s?”

“Yes; I’m sure she needs it.  Anything more unchristian—­”

In time Philip went to the church also, leaving his sister a little calmer and a little disposed to think over his advice.  What had come over Miss Abbott?  He had always thought her both stable and sincere.  That conversation he had had with her last Christmas in the train to Charing Cross—­that alone furnished him with a parallel.  For the second time, Monteriano must have turned her head.  He was not angry with her, for he was quite indifferent to the outcome of their expedition.  He was only extremely interested.