“Shall I come, too?” he asked.

“Just as you please,” she answered.  “My mother will think it strange if you don’t.”

Marcello bent his head, and the two followed the others towards the stairs at a little distance.

“Did your mother send word to Folco that you were here?” asked Marcello quickly, in a low tone.

“Not that I know.  Why?”

“It is no matter.  I wanted to be sure.  Thank you.”

They went upstairs side by side, not even glancing at each other, much more anxious to seem perfectly indifferent than to realise what they felt now that they had met at last.

Marcello stayed ten minutes in the small sitting-room, talking as well as he could.  He had no wish to be alone with Aurora or her mother, and since the visit had been pressed upon him he was glad that Folco was present.  But he got away as soon as he could, leaving Corbario to his own devices.  The Contessa gave him her hand quietly, as if she had not expected him to stay, and she did not ask him to come again.  Aurora merely nodded to him, and he saw that just as he went out she left the room by another door, after glancing at him once more with apparent coldness.

He walked quickly through the village until he came near to his own hotel, and then his pace slackened by degrees.  He knew that he had felt a strong emotion in seeing Aurora again, and he was already wishing that he had not come away so soon.  The room had been small, and it had been uncomfortable to be there, feeling himself judged and condemned by the Contessa and distrusted by Aurora; but he had been in an atmosphere that recalled all his youth, with people whose mere presence together brought back the memory of his dead mother as nothing else had done since his illness.  He was just in that state of mind in which he would have broken away and freed himself within the hour, at any cost, if he had been involved in a common intrigue.

At the same time he had become convinced that Folco had deceived him, for some reason or other which he could not guess, and the knowledge was the first serious disillusionment of his life.  The deception had been small, and perhaps intended in some mysterious way to be “for his own good”; but it had been a distinct deception and no better than a lie.  He was sure of that.

He went upstairs slowly and Regina met him at the door of their rooms, and took his hat and stick without a word, for she saw that something had happened, and she felt suddenly cold.  He was quite unlike himself.  The careless look was gone from his face, his young lips were tightly closed, and he looked straight before him, quite unconscious that his manner was hurting her desperately.

“Has Settimia been out to-day?” he asked, looking at her quickly.

“I don’t know,” she answered, surprised.  “I went for a long walk this morning.  She probably went out into the village.  I cannot tell.  Why do you ask?”