“I can never manage it without Settimia,” she said, as if excusing herself for her awkwardness, as she again submitted to Aurora’s help.

“Settimia?” repeated the young girl, as she put the hat on and thrust a long pin through it.  “Who is Settimia?”

“Our—­I mean my maid,” Regina explained.  “Thank you.  You are too good!”

“It is an uncommon name,” Aurora said, looking critically at the hat.  “But I think I have heard it before.”

“She is a wonderful woman.  She knows French.  She knows everything!”

Aurora said nothing to this, but seemed to be trying to recall something she had long forgotten.  Regina was very busy in her turn, pulling down the girl’s frock all round, and brushing it with her hand as well as she could, and picking off bits of dry grass and thistles that clung to the grey woollen.  Aurora thanked her.

“The way down is very easy now,” Regina said.  “A few steps farther on we can see the road.”

“After all, why should you not come with me till we find my mother?” Aurora asked.

“No,” Regina answered with quiet decision.  “I am what I am.  You must not be seen with Regina.  Do not tell your mother that you have been with me, and I shall not tell Marcello—­I mean, Signor Consalvi.”

“Why not?”

“Neither of them would be pleased.  Trust me.  I know the world.  Good-bye, and the Madonna accompany you; and remember what I said when I took your hand.”

So they parted, and Regina stood up a long time, and watched the slender grey figure descending to the road in the valley.

CHAPTER XIII

“Variety, my dear Marcello, variety!  There is nothing like it.  If I were you, I would make some change, for your life must be growing monotonous, and besides, though I have not the least intention of reading you a lecture, you have really made your doings unnecessarily conspicuous of late.  The Paris chroniclers have talked about you enough for the present.  Don’t you think so?  Yes, finish the bottle.  I always told you that champagne was good for you.”

Marcello filled his glass and sipped the wine before he answered.  It had not gone to his head, but there was colour in his lean cheeks, his eyes were brighter than usual, and he felt the familiar exhilaration which he had missed of late.

“I have been drinking milk for ten days,” he said with a smile, as he set down the glass.

“Good in its way, no doubt,” Corbario answered genially, “but a little tiresome.  One should often change from simple things to complicated ones.  It is the science of enjoyment.  Besides, it is bad for the digestion to live always on bread and milk.”

“I don’t live on that altogether,” laughed Marcello.