nking of nothing else for a long time.

A good deal had happened on that afternoon, for what Corbario had said
about Aurora, half playfully and half in earnest, had left Maddalena
under the impression that he had been trying a little experiment on his
own account, to feel his way. Aurora had more than once said in the
preceding years that she did not like his eyes and a certain way he had
of looking at her. He had admired her, even then, and now that he was a
widower it was not at all unlikely that he should think of marrying her.
He was not much more than thirty years old, and he had a singularly
youthful face. There was no objection on the score of his age. He was
rich, at least for his life-time. He had always been called a model
husband while his wife had been alive, and was said to have behaved
with propriety since. Maddalena tried to look at the matter coolly and
dispassionately, as if she did not instinctively dislike him. Why should
he not wish to marry Aurora? No one of the Contessa's acquaintances
would be at all surprised if he did, and most people would say that it
was a very good match, and that Aurora was fortunate to get such a
husband.

This was precisely what Folco thought; and as it was his nature to think
slowly and act quickly, it is not impossible that he may have revolved
the plan in his mind for a year or two while Aurora was growing up. The
final decision had perhaps been reached on that evening down by the
Roman shore, when Professor Kalmon had held up to his eyes the sure
means of taking the first step towards its accomplishment; and it had
been before him late on the same night when he had stood still in the
verandah holding the precious and terrible little tablet in the hollow
of his hand; and the next morning when he had suddenly seen Marcello
close before him, unconscious of his presence and defenceless. He had
run a great risk in vain that day, since Marcello was still alive, a
risk more awful than he cared to remember now; but it had been safely
passed, and he must never do anything so dangerous again. There was a
far safer and surer way of gaining his end than clumsy murder, and from
what the Contessa had told him of the impression she had received the
accomplishment was not far off. She had said that Marcello had looked
half dead; his delicate constitution could not bear such a life much
longer, and he would soon be dead in earnest.

Marcello did not write as regularly as Folco preten