"What was that about a fur?"
"Oh, good Lord! don't speak of it! For a whole month I've heard of nothing else. She sent a skin to the furrier to be repaired, and it seems to have got changed or something——"
"Are you going to Albano?"
"If she invites us—some Sunday."
"I'm not going," said Regina, stoutly.
"Why not?"
"Because—it's too hot," she said, dropping her voice.
"It won't be hot there. She has taken a villa on the edge of the lake. Such roses on the terrace! When they drop they fall straight into the water."
Regina knew all about it, for he had chosen the villa himself, and had described it to his wife a few days ago. They walked on without speaking further. The street lamps burned yellow and dismal in the rosy twilight, and their dull flame increased Regina's melancholy. Her foolish project of spying upon Antonio in the night recurred to her. She saw herself a flitting shadow under that yellow and dismal light, shadowed herself by some night prowler in search of adventure. But suddenly she raised her head proudly, saying to herself—