Corbario considered what might be done, went over many plans in his mind, compared many schemes, for the execution of some of which he might have paid dearly; and in the end he was dissatisfied with all, and began over again.  Still he reached no conclusion, and he attributed the fault to his own dulness, and his dulness to the life he had been leading of late, which was very much that which he wished Marcello to lead.  But he had always trusted his nerves, his ingenuity, and his constitution; if one of the three were to fail him, now that he was rich, it was better that it should be his ingenuity.

He made up his mind to go to the Engadine and see for himself how matters looked.  He could stay at Saint Moritz, or even Samaden, so as not to disturb Marcello’s idyl, and Marcello could come down alone to see him.  He should probably meet acquaintances, and would give them to understand that he had come in order to get rid of Regina and save his stepson from certain destruction.  Society was very lenient to young men as rich as Marcello, he reflected, but was inclined to lay all the blame of their doings on their natural guardians.  There was no reason why Corbario should expose himself to such criticism, and he was sure that the Contessa had only said what many people clearly thought, namely, that he was allowing Marcello far too much liberty.  The world should see that he was doing his duty by the boy.

He left Paris with regret, as he always did, after writing to Marcello twenty-four hours beforehand.  He wrote at the same time to Settimia.

“Folco will be here to-morrow,” Marcello said, as he and Regina sat under the pine-trees beyond the stream, a little way above the town.

Regina sat leaning against the trunk of a tree, and Marcello lay on his side, resting on his elbow and looking up to her.  He saw her face change.

“Why should he come here?” she asked.  “We are so happy!”

“He will not disturb us,” Marcello answered.  “He will stop at Saint Moritz.  I shall go down to see him there.  I am very fond of him, you know, and we have not seen each other for at least two months.  I shall be very glad to see him.”

The colour was sinking in Regina’s face, and her eyelids were almost closed.

“You are the master,” she said quietly enough.  “You will do as you will.”

He was surprised, and he felt a little resentment at her tone.  He liked her better when she dominated him, as on that night in Paris when she had made him promise to come away, and had refused to let him drink more wine, and had sent him to bed like a child.  Now she spoke as her forefathers, serfs born to the plough and bound to the soil, must have spoken to their lords and owners.  There was no ancient aristocratic blood in his own veins; he was simply a middle-class Italian gentleman who chanced to be counted with the higher class because he had been born very rich, had been brought up by a lady, and had been more or less