“I can read,” she said.  “I can read writing, and that is very hard, you know.  I made Settimia teach me.  I said with myself, if he should be away and should write to me, what should I do?  I could not let Settimia read his letters, and I am too well dressed to go to a public letter-writer in the street, as the peasants do.  He would think me an ignorant person, and the people in the street would laugh.  That would not help me.  I should have to go to the priest, to my confessor.”

“Your confessor?  Do you go to confession?”

“Do you take me for a Turk?” Regina asked, laughing.  “I go to confession at Christmas and Easter.  I tell the priest that I am very bad, and am sorry, but that it is for you and that I cannot help it.  Then he asks me if I will promise to leave you and be good.  And I say no, that I will not promise that.  And he tells me to go away and come back when I am ready to promise, and that he will give me absolution then.  It is always the same.  He shakes his head and frowns when he sees me coming, and I smile.  We know each other quite well now.  I have told him that when you are tired of me, then I will be good.  Is not that enough?  What can I do?  I should like to be good, of course, but I like still better to be with you.  So it is.”

“You are better than the priest knows,” said Marcello thoughtfully, “and I am worse.”

“It is not true.  But if I had a letter from you, I would not take it to the priest to read for me.  He would be angry, and tear it up, and send me away.  I understood this at the beginning, so I made Settimia teach me how to read the writing, and I also learned to write myself, not very well, but one can understand it.”

“I know.  I have seen you writing copies.  But how has that helped you to find out what Folco is doing?”

“I read all Settimia’s letters,” Regina answered, with perfect simplicity.

“Eh?” Marcello thought he had misunderstood her.

“I read all the letters she gets,” Regina replied, unmoved.  “When she was teaching me to read I saw where she kept all her letters.  It is always the same place.  There is a pocket inside a little black bag she has, which opens easily, though she locks it.  She puts the letters there, and when she has read them over she burns them.  You see, she has no idea that I read them.  But I always do, ever since you asked me about that note.  When I know that she has had a letter, I send her out on an errand.  Then I read.  It is so easy!”

Regina laughed, but Marcello looked displeased.

“It is not honest to do such things,” he said.

“Not honest?” Regina stared at him in amazement.  “How does honesty enter into the question?  Is Settimia honest?  Then honest people should all be in the galleys!  And if you knew how he writes to her!  Oh, yes!  You are the ‘dear patient,’ and I am the ‘admirable companion.’  They have known each other long, those two.  They have a language between