ere to-morrow," Marcello said, as he and Regina sat
under the pine-trees beyond the stream, a little way above the town.

Regina sat leaning against the trunk of a tree, and Marcello lay on his
side, resting on his elbow and looking up to her. He saw her face
change.

"Why should he come here?" she asked. "We are so happy!"

"He will not disturb us," Marcello answered. "He will stop at Saint
Moritz. I shall go down to see him there. I am very fond of him, you
know, and we have not seen each other for at least two months. I shall
be very glad to see him."

The colour was sinking in Regina's face, and her eyelids were almost
closed.

"You are the master," she said quietly enough. "You will do as you
will."

He was surprised, and he felt a little resentment at her tone. He liked
her better when she dominated him, as on that night in Paris when she
had made him promise to come away, and had refused to let him drink more
wine, and had sent him to bed like a child. Now she spoke as her
forefathers, serfs born to the plough and bound to the soil, must have
spoken to their lords and owners. There was no ancient aristocratic
blood in his own veins; he was simply a middle-class Italian gentleman
who chanced to be counted with the higher class because he had been born
very rich, had been brought up by a lady, and had been more or less well
educated. That was all. It did not seem natural to him that she should
call him "the master" in that tone. He knew that she was not his equal,
but somehow it was a little humiliating to have to own it, and he often
wished that she were. Often, not always; for he had never been sure that
he should have cared to make her his wife, had she been ever so well
born. He scarcely knew what he really wanted now, for he had lost his
hold on himself, and was content with mere enjoyment from day to day. He
could no longer imagine living without her, and while he was conscious
that the present state of things could not last very long, he could not
face the problem of the future.

He did not answer at once, and she sat quite still, almost closing her
eyes.

"Why should you be displeased because I am going to see Folco?" he asked
after a while.

"He comes to take you away from me," she answered, without moving.

"That is absurd!" cried Marcello, annoyed by her tone.

"No. It is true. I know it."

"You are unreasonable. He is the best friend I have in the world. Do you
expect me to promise that