“It would be right,” Marcello answered, gaining courage.

“Yes, yes, undoubtedly,” Folco hastened to admit.  “In principle it would undoubtedly be right.  But it is a very serious matter, my dear boy.  It means your whole life and future.  Have you”—­he hesitated, with an affectation of delicacy—­“have you said anything to her about it?”

“I used to, at first, but she would not hear of it.  You have no idea how simple she is, and how little she expects anything of the sort.  She always tells me that I am to send her away when I am tired of her, to throw her away like an old coat, as she says herself.  But I could never do that, you know.  Could I?”

Marcello blushed again, hardly knowing why.  Corbario seemed deeply interested.

“She must be a very unusual sort of girl,” he observed thoughtfully.  “There are not many like her, I fancy.”

“There is nobody like her,” Marcello answered with conviction.  “That is why I want to marry her.  I owe it to her.  You must admit that.  I owe her my life, for I certainly should have died if she had not taken care of me.  And then, there is the rest.  She has given me all she has, and that is herself, and she asks nothing in return.  She is very proud, too.  I tried to make her accept a string of pearls in Paris, just because I thought they would be becoming to her, but she absolutely refused.”

“Really?  I suppose you gave the pearls back to the jeweller?”

“No, I kept them.  Perhaps I shall get her to wear them some day.”

Folco smiled.

“You may just as well encourage her simple tastes,” he said.  “Women always end by learning how to spend money, unless it is their own.”

Having delivered himself of this piece of wisdom Folco chose a cigar, nipped off the end of it neatly with a gold cutter, lit it and snuffed the rich smoke up his nose in a deliberate manner.

“Regina is a very remarkable woman,” he said at last.  “If she had been well educated, she would make an admirable wife; and she loves you devotedly, Marcello.  Now, the real question is—­at least, it seems to me so—­you don’t mind my talking to you just as I would to myself, do you?  Very well.  If I were in your position, I should ask myself, as a man of honour, whether I really loved her as much as she loved me, or whether I had only been taken off my feet by her beauty.  Don’t misunderstand me, my boy!  I should feel that if I were not quite sure of that, I ought not to marry her, because it would be much worse for her in the end than if we parted.  Have you ever asked yourself that question, Marcello?”

“Yes, I have.”

Marcello spoke in a low voice, and bent his head, as if he were not sure of the answer.  Corbario, satisfied with the immediate effect of his satanic speech, waited a moment, sighed, looked down at his cigar, and then went on in gentle tones.

“That is so often the way,” he said.  “A man marries a woman out of a sense of duty, and then makes her miserably unhappy, quite in spite of himself.  Of course, in such a case as yours, you feel that you owe a woman amends—­you cannot call it compensation, as if it were a matter of law!  She has given everything, and you have given nothing.  You owe her happiness, if you can bestow it upon her, don’t you?”