Marcello had always been grateful to Regina, even when he had convinced himself that he loved her.  Love is not very compatible with gratitude.  Two people who love each other very much expect everything because they are always ready to give everything, not in return or by way of any exchange, but as if the two were one in giving and taking.  A man cannot be grateful to himself.  But Marcello had never felt that dear illusion with Regina, because there had been no real companionship; and so he had always been grateful to her, and now that she was perhaps dying, he was possessed by the horribly painful certainty that he could never repay her what he owed, and that this debt of honour must remain unpaid for ever, if she died.  There was much more than that in what he felt, of course, for there was his very real affection, tormented by the foreboding of the coming wrench, and there was the profound sympathy of a very kind man for a suffering woman.  But all that together was not love like hers for him; it was not love at all.

Kalmon waited, and smoked a little, reflecting on these things, which he understood tolerably well.  The quiet man of science had watched Marcello thoughtfully, and could not help asking himself what look there would be in his own eyes, if Maddalena dell’ Armi were dying and he were standing by her bedside.  It would not be Marcello’s look.

A closed cab stopped before the entrance, and almost before he could throw away his cigarette, the Contessa and Aurora were standing beside him on the pavement.

“She is very weak,” he said, “but she will not be delirious again for some time—­if at all.”

Neither of the ladies spoke, and they followed him in silence up the ill-lighted staircase.

“That is where I live,” he said, as he passed his own door on the second landing.  “Marcello is camping there.  He is probably asleep now.”

“Asleep!” It was Aurora that uttered the single word, in a puzzled tone.

“He did not go to bed last night,” Kalmon explained, going on.

“Oh!” Again the Professor was struck by the young girl’s tone.

They reached the third landing, and Kalmon pushed the door, which he had left ajar; he shut it when they had all entered, and he ushered the mother and daughter into the small sitting-room.  There they waited a moment while he went to tell Regina that Aurora had come.

The young girl dropped her cloak upon a chair and stood waiting, her eyes fixed on the door.  She was a little pale, not knowing what was to come, yet feeling somehow that it was to make a great difference to her ever afterwards.  She glanced at her mother, and the Contessa smiled gently, as much as to say that she was doing right, but neither spoke.

Presently Kalmon came out with the Sister of Charity, who bent her head gravely to the two ladies.

“She wishes to see you alone,” Kalmon said, in explanation, while he held the door open for Aurora to pass in.