She tended the twins while the Clotilde was in Sebastian’s private chambers, a place she gave a wide berth. She recalled that day of the typhoon and the sloop crashing on the outer reefs. Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. I have not found the secret way into the house, for instance. She didn’t trust Gianfrancesco, you know, she called him a ‘bad husband’. A woman was born to have children, particularly male children. Under her feet lay intricate mosaics, and each warm hall was festooned in tapestries. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. Perhaps that is why I lost my ambition. He was also, had she known it, more than a little insincere.
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