“Why do you say ‘poor boy’ in that tone?  Do you think he is so much to be pitied?”

“A little, certainly.”  Corbario smiled.

“I don’t see why.”

“Women never do, when a man is in love!”

“Women”—­the flattery was subtle and Aurora’s face cleared.  Corbario was a man of the world, without doubt, and he had called her a woman, in a most natural way, as if she had been at least twenty years old.  It did not occur to her to ask herself whether Folco had any object in wishing to please her just then, but she knew well enough that he did wish to do so.  Even a girl’s instinct is unerring in that; and Corbario further pleased her by not pursuing the subject, for what he had said seemed all the more spontaneous because it led to nothing.

“If Marcello is not in the cottage,” he observed, as they came near, “he must have gone off for a walk after he left you.  Did you not see which way he turned?”

“How could I from the place where I stood?” asked Aurora in reply.  “As soon as he had turned behind the bank it was impossible to say which way he had gone.”

“Of course,” assented Folco.  “I understand that.”

Marcello had not come home, and Aurora was sorry that she had teased him into a temper and had then allowed him to go away.  It was not good for him, delicate as he was, to go for a long walk in such weather without any breakfast, and she felt distinctly contrite as she ate her roll in silence and drank her coffee, on the sheltered side of the cottage, under the verandah.  The Signora Corbario had not appeared yet, but the Contessa was already out.  As a rule the Signora preferred to have her coffee in her room, as if she were in town.  For some time no one spoke.

“Had we not better send Ercole to find Marcello?” the Contessa asked at last.

“I had to send Ercole to Porto d’Anzio this morning,” Corbario answered.  “I took the opportunity, because I knew there would be no quail with this wind.”

“Marcello will come in when he is hungry,” said Aurora, rather sharply, because she really felt sorry.

But Marcello did not come in.

Soon after eight o’clock his mother appeared on the verandah.  Folco dropped his newspaper and hastened to make her comfortable in her favourite chair.  Though she was not strong, she was not an invalid, but she was one of those women whom it seems natural to help, to whom men bring cushions, and with whom other women are always ready to sympathise.  If one of Fra Angelico’s saints should walk into a modern drawing-room all the men would fall over each other in the scramble to make her comfortable, and all the women would offer her tea and ask her if she felt the draught.

The Signora looked about, expecting to see her son.

“Marcello has not come in,” said Folco, understanding.  “He seems to have gone for a long walk.”

“I hope he has put on his thick boots,” answered the Signora, in a thoughtful tone.  “It is very wet.”