"Settimia?" repeated the young girl, as she put the hat on and thrust a long pin through it. "Who is Settimia?"
"Our—I mean my maid," Regina explained. "Thank you. You are too good!"
"It is an uncommon name," Aurora said, looking critically at the hat. "But I think I have heard it before."
"She is a wonderful woman. She knows French. She knows everything!"
Aurora said nothing to this, but seemed to be trying to recall something she had long forgotten. Regina was very busy in her turn, pulling down the girl's frock all round, and brushing it with her hand as well as she could, and picking off bits of dry grass and thistles that clung to the grey woollen. Aurora thanked her.
"The way down is very easy now," Regina said. "A few steps farther on we can see the road."
"After all, why should you not come with me till we find my mother?" Aurora asked.
"No," Regina answered with quiet decision. "I am what I am. You must not be seen with Regina. Do not tell your mother that you have been with me, and I shall not tell Marcello—I mean, Signor Consalvi."
"Why not?"
"Neither of them would be pleased. Trust me. I know the world. Good-bye, and the Madonna accompany you; and remember what I said when I took your hand."