“Poor Marcello!  Yes, indeed!  I’m sorry for him.  There is something more than is in the papers, and more than I have written to you and told you.  Regina has the perniciosa fever, complicated with pneumonia, and is not likely to live.”

“I am sorry,” the Contessa answered.  “I am very sorry for her.  But after all, compared with what Marcello has learned about his mother’s death—­and other things Corbario did—­”

She stopped, implying by her tone that even if Regina died, that would not be the greatest of Marcello’s misfortunes.  Besides, she had long foreseen that the relations of the two could not last, and the simplest solution, and the happiest one for the poor devoted girl, was that she should die before her heart was broken.  Maddalena dell’ Armi had often wished that her own fate had been as merciful.

“Yes,” Kalmon answered.  “You are right in that.  But Regina has made a rather strange request.  It was very unexpected, and perhaps I did wrong to tell her that I would do my best to satisfy her.  I don’t think she will live, and I felt sorry for her.  That is why I came to you.  It concerns Aurora.”

“Aurora?” The Contessa was surprised.

“Yes.  The girl knows she is dying, and wishes very much to see Aurora for a moment.  I suppose it was weak of me to give her any hope.”

The Contessa dropped her newspaper and looked into the fire thoughtfully before she answered.

“You and I are very good friends,” she said.  “You would not ask me to do anything you would not do yourself, would you?  If you had a daughter of Aurora’s age, should you let her go and see this poor woman, unless it were an act of real charity?”

“No,” Kalmon answered reluctantly.  “I don’t think I should.”

“Thank you for being so honest,” Maddalena answered, and looked at the fire again.

Some time passed before she spoke again, still watching the flames.  Kalmon sighed, for he was very sorry for Regina.

“On the other hand,” the Contessa said at last, “it may be a real charity.  Have you any idea why she wishes to see Aurora?”

“No.  I cannot guess.”

“I can.  At least, I think I can.”  She paused again.  “You know everything about me,” she continued presently.  “In the course of years I have told you all my story.  Do you think I am a better woman than Regina?”

“My dear friend!” cried Kalmon, almost angrily.  “How can you suggest—­”

She turned her clear, sad eyes to him, and her look cut short his speech.

“What has her sin been?” she asked gently.  “She has loved Marcello.  What was mine?  That I loved one man too well.  Which is the better woman?  She, the peasant, who knew no better, who found her first love dying, and saved him, and loved him—­knowing no better, and braving the world?  Or I, well born, carefully brought up, a woman of the world, and married—­no matter how—­not braving the world at all, but miserably trying to deceive it, and my husband, and my child?  Do you think I was so much better than poor Regina?  Would my own daughter think so if she could know and understand?”