"Did you see her rings?"
"What do I care for rings if the gloves are dirty?"
Regina relapsed into silence; then she laughed softly, and presently fell into a light sleep. She dreamt she was in a wood on the banks of the Po towards Viadana. The shining waters were churned by a mill, but the mill was a castle with vast rooms hung with red, and the castle belonged to Madame Makuline. The Princess was dead, but her soul had climbed up a poplar-tree, through the silver leaves of which shone the river, a crystalline blue. The mill wheel roared like thunder, and Regina, seated on the entrance stair of the castle, was washing her feet in a runnel of greenish water which overflowed the steps. A white duck came to peck at the little toe of her right foot, and laughed. Regina laughed herself. She was vaguely aware she was dreaming, for she was analysing her sentiments, and knew that a mill is a mill, that ducks can't laugh, and souls can't climb poplar-trees. None the less, she was oppressed by mysterious fear, by a sense of intolerable repugnance and distress.
Antonio heard her laugh, that vague, strange laugh from the profundity of dream which is like a voice from the depths of a well.
"She's having pleasant visions—she is happy, my little queen!" he thought, much moved.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] One who favours despotism.
[2] Fine. Out of the common—delicately exquisite.