Marcello wondered whether Aurora would ever meet Regina face to face, and what would happen if he were called upon to choose between the two.  He would choose Regina, he said to himself, when he was going down the steep way from the villa to the little house, eager for her touch, her voice, her breath, and feeling in his pocket the key that opened the garden gate.  But when the hours had passed, and he slowly walked up the road under the great plane-trees, in the cool of the late evening, glancing at the distant lights of Rome beyond the Tiber, and dimly conscious that something was still unsatisfied, then he hesitated and he remembered his boyish love, and fancied that if he met Aurora in the way they would stand still, each finding the other in the other’s eyes, and silently kiss, as they had kissed long ago.  Yet, with the thought, he felt shame, and he blushed, alone there under the plane-trees.

But Aurora had never come back to Rome, and the small apartment that overlooked the Forum of Trajan had other tenants.  It was strange that the Contessa and her daughter should not have returned, and sometimes Marcello felt a great longing to see them.  He said “them” to himself at such times, but he knew what he meant.

So time went on.  Corbario said that he himself must really go to San Domenico, to look after the Calabrian property, but added that it would be quite useless for Marcello to go with him.  Marcello could stay in Rome and amuse himself as he pleased, or he might make a little journey to the north, to Switzerland, to the Tyrol—­there were so many places.  Settimia would take care of Regina, and perhaps Regina herself had better make a little trip for a change.  Yes, Settimia had travelled a good deal; she even knew enough French to travel in a foreign country, if necessary.  Corbario said that he did not know where she had learned French, but he was quite sure she knew it tolerably well.  Regina would be safe under her care, in some quiet place where the air would do her good.

Thereupon Corbario went off to the south, leaving Marcello plentifully supplied with money and promising to write to him.  They parted affectionately.

“If you wish to go away,” Corbario said, as he was leaving, “it might be as well to leave your next address, so that you may get letters.  But please don’t fancy that I want to know everything you do, my dear boy.  You are quite old enough to take care of yourself, and quite sensible enough, too.  The only thing you had better avoid for a few years is marriage!”

Folco laughed softly as he delivered this piece of advice, and lit a cigar.  Then he looked critically at Marcello.

“You are still very pale,” he observed thoughtfully.  “You have not got back all your strength yet.  Drink plenty of champagne at luncheon and dinner.  There is nothing like it when a man is run down.  And don’t sit up all night smoking cigarettes more than three times a week!”