“We saw the world together without being married,” Regina answered obstinately.  “What difference would there be, if we were husband and wife?  Do you wish to know what difference there would be?  I will tell you.  There would be this difference.  One day I should see no light in your eyes, and your lips would be like stone.  Then I should say, ’Heart of my heart, you are tired of me, and I go.’  But you would answer, ’You cannot go, for you are my wife.’  What would that be?  That would be the difference.  Do you understand, or do you not understand?  If you do not understand, I can do nothing.  But I will not marry you.  Have you ever seen a mule go down to the ford in spring, too heavily laden, when there is freshet?  He drowns, if he is driven in, because the burden is too heavy.  I will not be the burden; but I should be, if I were your wife, because I am not a real signora.  Now you know what I think.”

“Yes,” Marcello answered, “but I do not think in the same way.”

He was not sure how to answer her arguments, and he lit a cigarette to gain time.  He was quietly determined to have his own way, but in order to succeed he knew that he must persuade her till she agreed with him.  He could not drag her to the altar against her will.

Before he had thrown away the match, Regina had risen from her chair.  She leaned against the little marble mantelpiece, looking down at him.

“There are things that you do not know,” she said.  “If you knew them you would not want to marry me.  In all the time we have been together, you have hardly ever spoken to me of your mother.”

Marcello started a little and looked up, unconsciously showing that he was displeased.

“No,” he answered.  “Why should I?”

“You were right.  Your mother is now one of the saints in Paradise.  How do I know it?  Even Settimia knew it.  I am not going to talk of her now.  I am not fit to speak her name in your hearing.  Very well.  Do you know what my mother was?”

“She is dead,” Marcello replied, meaning that Regina should let her memory alone.

“Or my father?” she asked, going on.  “They were bad people.  I come of a bad race.  Perhaps that is why I do wrong easily, for you.  My father killed a man and left us, though he was allowed to go free, and I never saw him again.  He had reason to kill the man.  I was a little girl, but I remember.  My mother took other men.  They came and went; sometimes they were drunk and they beat us.  When I was twelve years old one of them looked upon me with bad eyes.  Then my mother cursed him, and he took up a stone and struck her on the head, and she died.  They sent him to the galleys, and me to work at the inn, because I had no friends.  This is the family of Regina.  It is a race of assassins and wicked women.  If I were your wife, that would be the family of your wife.  If God sent children, that would be the blood they would have of me, to mix with that of your mother, who is one of the saints in heaven.  This is the truth.  If you think I am telling you one thing for another, let us go to the inn on the Frascati road.  Paoluccio and Nanna know.  They would laugh if they could see me dressed like a real signora, and they would say, ‘This girl is her mother’s daughter!’ And so I am.”