As they stood by the table, a servant brought a note on a little salver, holding it out to them as if he were not sure which of them was to receive it.  Both glanced at the address; it was for Corbario, who took it quickly and put it into his pocket; but Marcello had recognised the handwriting—­that rather cramped feminine hand of a woman who has seen better days, in which Settimia kept accounts for Regina.  The latter insisted that an account should be kept of the money which Marcello gave her, and that he should see it from time to time.  At the first moment, being absorbed with other matters, and inwardly much engaged in the pursuit of his own conscience, which eluded him at every turn like a figure in a dream, he paid no attention to what he had seen; but the writing had impressed itself on his memory.

They had been lunching in Folco’s sitting-room, and Corbario made an excuse to go into his bedroom for a moment, saying that he wanted certain cigars that his man had put away.  Marcello stood at the window gazing down the broad valley.  Scarcely a minute elapsed before Folco came back with a handful of Havanas which he dropped on a writing-table.

“By the bye,” he said carelessly, “there is another reason why you may not care to stay long in Pontresina.  The Contessa and Aurora are there.”

“Are they?” Marcello turned sharply as he asked the question.

He was surprised, and at the same instant it flashed upon him that Folco had just received the information from Settimia in the note that had been brought.

“Yes,” Folco answered with a smile.  “And Pontresina is such a small place that you can hardly help meeting them.  I thought I might as well tell you.”

“Thank you.  Yes, it would be awkward, and unpleasant for them.”

“Precisely.  The Contessa wrote me that she and Aurora had come upon you two unexpectedly in leaving a theatre, and that she had felt very uncomfortable.”

“Oh!  I suppose she suggested that I should mend my ways?”

“As a matter of fact, she did.”  Corbario smiled.  “You know what a very proper person she is!”

“She is quite right,” answered Marcello gravely.

“It certainly cannot have been pleasant for her, on account of Aurora.”

Folco looked at him thoughtfully, for his tone had suddenly changed.

“If you don’t mind,” Folco said, “I think I will drive up with you and call on them this afternoon.  You can drop me at their hotel, and I shall find my way back alone.”

“Certainly.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Folco affected to speak anxiously.

“Why should I?”

“You see,” Folco said, without heeding the question, “they let me know that they were there, and as we are such old friends it would be strange if I did not go to see them.”

“Of course it would,” answered Marcello in an absent tone.