"You and I are very good friends," she said. "You would not ask me to do anything you would not do yourself, would you? If you had a daughter of Aurora's age, should you let her go and see this poor woman, unless it were an act of real charity?"
"No," Kalmon answered reluctantly. "I don't think I should."
"Thank you for being so honest," Maddalena answered, and looked at the fire again.
Some time passed before she spoke again, still watching the flames. Kalmon sighed, for he was very sorry for Regina.
"On the other hand," the Contessa said at last, "it may be a real charity. Have you any idea why she wishes to see Aurora?"
"No. I cannot guess."
"I can. At least, I think I can." She paused again. "You know everything about me," she continued presently. "In the course of years I have told you all my story. Do you think I am a better woman than Regina?"
"My dear friend!" cried Kalmon, almost angrily. "How can you suggest—"
She turned her clear, sad eyes to him, and her look cut short his speech.
"What has her sin been?" she asked gently. "She has loved Marcello. What was mine? That I loved one man too well. Which is the better woman? She, the peasant, who knew no better, who found her first love dying, and saved him, and loved him—knowing no better, and braving the world? Or I, well born, carefully brought up, a woman of the world, and married—no matter how—not braving the world at all, but miserably trying to deceive it, and my husband, and my child? Do you think I was so much better than poor Regina? Would my own daughter think so if she could know and understand?"