"We will go home," Regina answered. "I do not want any supper to-night."
They reached their hotel. Regina tossed her hat upon a chair in the sitting-room and drew Marcello to the light, holding him before her, and scrutinising his face with extraordinary intensity. Suddenly her hands dropped from his shoulders.
"She was right; you are ill. Who is this lady that knows your face better than I?"
She asked the question in a tone of bitterness and self-reproach.
"The Contessa dell' Armi," Marcello answered, with a shade of reluctance.
"And the girl?" asked Regina, in a flash of intuition.
"Her daughter Aurora." He turned away, lit a cigarette, and rang the bell.
Regina bit her lip until it hurt her, for she remembered how often he had pronounced that name in his delirium, many months ago. She could not speak for a moment. A waiter came in answer to the bell, and Marcello ordered something, and then sat down. Regina went to her room and did not return until the servant had come back and was gone again, leaving a tray on the table.
"What is the matter?" asked Marcello in surprise, as he caught sight of her face.
She sat down at a little distance, her eyes fixed on him.