The Contessa, who was a woman of the world, nodded quietly and smiled as if she had seen nothing, but she at once began to steer her daughter in a divergent direction.

“You are looking very ill,” she said, turning her head back as she moved away.  “Come and see us.”

“Where?” asked Marcello, making half a step to follow, and looking at the back of Aurora’s head and at the pretty hat she wore.

The Contessa named a quiet hotel in the Rue Saint Honore, and was gone in the crowd.  Marcello stood quite still for a moment, staring after the two.  Then he felt Regina’s hand slipping through his arm.

“Come,” she said softly, and she led him away to the left.

He did not speak for a long time.  They turned under the arches into the Palais Royal, and followed the long portico in silence, out to the Rue Vivienne and the narrow Rue des Petits Champs.  Still Marcello did not speak, and without a word they reached the Avenue de l’Opera.  The light was very bright there, and Regina looked long at Marcello’s face, and saw how white it was.

“She said you were looking very ill,” said she, in a voice that shook a little.

“Nonsense!” cried Marcello, rousing himself.  “Shall we have supper at Henry’s or at the Cafe de Paris?  We are near both.”

“We will go home,” Regina answered.  “I do not want any supper to-night.”

They reached their hotel.  Regina tossed her hat upon a chair in the sitting-room and drew Marcello to the light, holding him before her, and scrutinising his face with extraordinary intensity.  Suddenly her hands dropped from his shoulders.

“She was right; you are ill.  Who is this lady that knows your face better than I?”

She asked the question in a tone of bitterness and self-reproach.

“The Contessa dell’ Armi,” Marcello answered, with a shade of reluctance.

“And the girl?” asked Regina, in a flash of intuition.

“Her daughter Aurora.”  He turned away, lit a cigarette, and rang the bell.

Regina bit her lip until it hurt her, for she remembered how often he had pronounced that name in his delirium, many months ago.  She could not speak for a moment.  A waiter came in answer to the bell, and Marcello ordered something, and then sat down.  Regina went to her room and did not return until the servant had come back and was gone again, leaving a tray on the table.

“What is the matter?” asked Marcello in surprise, as he caught sight of her face.

She sat down at a little distance, her eyes fixed on him.

“I am a very wicked woman,” she said, in a dull voice.

“You?” Marcello laughed and filled the glasses.

“I am letting you kill yourself to amuse me,” Regina said.  “I am a very, very wicked woman.  But you shall not do it any more.  We will go away at once.”

“I am perfectly well,” Marcello answered, holding out a glass to her; but she would not take it.