ones. He compared it in his mind to the keen
disappointment he had felt when he had gone down to hide Marcello's
body, and had discovered that he had failed to kill him. It is true that
what he had felt then had been accompanied by the most awful terror he
could imagine, but he distinguished clearly between the one sensation
and the other. There was nothing to fear now; he had simply lost time,
but that was bad enough, since it was due to his own stupidity.

He thought over the situation carefully and considered how much it would
be wise to risk. Another year of the life Marcello had been leading in
Paris would have killed him to a certainty; perhaps six months would
have done it. But a summer spent at Pontresina, living as it was clear
that Regina meant him to live, would give the boy strength enough to
last much longer, and might perhaps bring him out of all danger.

Corbario considered what might be done, went over many plans in his
mind, compared many schemes, for the execution of some of which he might
have paid dearly; and in the end he was dissatisfied with all, and began
over again. Still he reached no conclusion, and he attributed the fault
to his own dulness, and his dulness to the life he had been leading of
late, which was very much that which he wished Marcello to lead. But he
had always trusted his nerves, his ingenuity, and his constitution; if
one of the three were to fail him, now that he was rich, it was better
that it should be his ingenuity.

He made up his mind to go to the Engadine and see for himself how
matters looked. He could stay at Saint Moritz, or even Samaden, so as
not to disturb Marcello's idyl, and Marcello could come down alone to
see him. He should probably meet acquaintances, and would give them to
understand that he had come in order to get rid of Regina and save his
stepson from certain destruction. Society was very lenient to young men
as rich as Marcello, he reflected, but was inclined to lay all the blame
of their doings on their natural guardians. There was no reason why
Corbario should expose himself to such criticism, and he was sure that
the Contessa had only said what many people clearly thought, namely,
that he was allowing Marcello far too much liberty. The world should see
that he was doing his duty by the boy.

He left Paris with regret, as he always did, after writing to Marcello
twenty-four hours beforehand. He wrote at the same time to Settimia.

"Folco will be h