But the next morning's sun dispersed Regina's childish fears, her anxiety, and her remorse.
"I shall hear from him to-day or to-morrow," she thought, waking in her old room, the window of which gave on the river. A swallow, which was used to come in and roost on the blind rod, flew round the room and pecked at the shut window. Regina jumped out of bed and opened it. The sight of the swallow had filled her heart with sudden joy, which increased at sight of the smiling landscape. Irresistibly impelled, she left the house and wandered through the fields, refreshing her spirit in the intoxicating bath of greenness and morning sun and lingering dew. She followed little grassy paths, at the entrance to which tall poplars reared their white stems like gigantic columns, their tops blending into one shimmering roof. She passed along the ditches populated by families of peaceful ducks; the little snails crept along, leaving their silvery tracks upon the grass; woodpeckers concealed in the poplars marked time with their beaks in the serenity of space and solitude.
As in the moonlit evening, so now in the sunshine, every blade of grass, every leaf, every little stone, sparkled and shone. The river rolled on its majestic course, furrowed by paths of gold, flecked here and there by pearly whirlpools. The islands, covered with evanescent vegetation, with the lace of trembling foliage, divided the splendours of the water and of the sky. Spring was still luxuriant over the immensity of the plain—spring strong as a giantess, kissed by her lover the river, decked by the thousand hands of the husbandmen, her slaves.
But when she was tired Regina threw herself upon the clover, still wet with dewdrops, and at once her thoughts flew far away. In the afternoon she began again to feel anxious and sad.
That very day visits began from inquisitive, tiresome, interested people—relations, friends, persons who wanted favours. They all imagined Regina influential to obtain anything, just because she lived in Rome. She was amused at first, but presently she wearied. All these people who came to greet and to flatter her seemed to have changed, to have grown older, simpler, less significant, than she had left them.
The Master himself came, with Gabriella, a small fair-haired creature, with pale, round face, and steely eyes, very bright, very deep, very observant.
"And so here is our Regina!" said the Master, buttoning his coat across his narrow chest. "Oh, bravissima! I got the postcard with the picture of the Colosseum. That really is a monument! Oh, brava, our Regina! I suppose you have visited all the monuments, both pagan and Christian? And seen the works of Michaelangelo Buonarotti? Oh, Rome! Rome! Yes, I wish my two children could get to the eternal Rome."
"Papa!" said Gabrie, watching Regina to see if she were laughing at him.
But Regina was merely cold and indifferent—an attitude which relieved but slightly intimidated the future lady-professor. A little later came a young lady of a titled family from Sabbioneta. She had a lovely slender figure, and was very pale, with black hair dressed à la Botticelli; she was smart also, wearing white gloves and tan shoes with very high heels.
Toscana, Gabrie and this young lady were all the same age—about eighteen—clever and unripe, like all school-girls. They were nominally friends. Regina, however, saw they envied and nearly hated each other. The aristocratic damsel gave herself airs, and spoke impertinences with much grace.