"We saw the world together without being married," Regina answered
obstinately. "What difference would there be, if we were husband and
wife? Do you wish to know what difference there would be? I will tell
you. There would be this difference. One day I should see no light in
your eyes, and your lips would be like stone. Then I should say, 'Heart
of my heart, you are tired of me, and I go.' But you would answer, 'You
cannot go, for you are my wife.' What would that be? That would be the
difference. Do you understand, or do you not understand? If you do not
understand, I can do nothing. But I will not marry you. Have you ever
seen a mule go down to the ford in spring, too heavily laden, when there
is freshet? He drowns, if he is driven in, because the burden is too
heavy. I will not be the burden; but I should be, if I were your wife,
because I am not a real signora. Now you know what I think."

"Yes," Marcello answered, "but I do not think in the same way."

He was not sure how to answer her arguments, and he lit a cigarette to
gain time. He was quietly determined to have his own way, but in order
to succeed he knew that he must persuade her till she agreed with him.
He could not drag her to the altar against her will.

Before he had thrown away the match, Regina had risen from her chair.
She leaned against the little marble mantelpiece, looking down at him.

"There are things that you do not know," she said. "If you knew them you
would not want to marry me. In all the time we have been together, you
have hardly ever spoken to me of your mother."

Marcello started a little and looked up, unconsciously showing that he
was displeased.

"No," he answered. "Why should I?"

"You were right. Your mother is now one of the saints in Paradise. How
do I know it? Even Settimia knew it. I am not going to talk of her now.
I am not fit to speak her name in your hearing. Very well. Do you know
what my mother was?"

"She is dead," Marcello replied, meaning that Regina should let her
memory alone.

"Or my father?" she asked, going on. "They were bad people. I come of a
bad race. Perhaps that is why I do wrong easily, for you. My father
killed a man and left us, though he was allowed to go free, and I never
saw him again. He had reason to kill the man. I was a little girl, but I
remember. My mother took other men. They came and went; sometimes they
were drunk and they beat us. When I was twelve years old one of them
looked upo