Stretched on the lavender-scented bed, Anania pondered. If this Maria Obinu were Olì? If it were _She_? So near and yet so far! What mysterious thread had led him to her, to the very pillow where she must have wept for her deserted child? How strange is life!--a thread upon which men dance like rags moved by the wind; was it really she? Then he had arrived at his goal insensibly, almost unintentionally, by force of his subconscious will which had given him suggestion. Suggestion of what? But surely this was folly! Childishness! It couldn't be she! But if it were? Did she already know she was with her son while he was racked by doubt? Then why didn't she reveal herself? What was she afraid of? Had she recognised the amulet. No, it could not be she. A mother must betray herself; could not help crying out on meeting her child. The idea was absurd. No, it was not absurd. A woman can control herself under the most violent emotions. Olì would be afraid--after deserting her son--throwing him away. Well, so much the more she ought to betray herself. A mother is always a mother--not a mere woman. And how could Olì, a wild creature, a child of nature, have so assimilated the hypocrisy of cities, as to be able to feign like an actress? Impossible! Maria Obinu was Maria Obinu, a nice kind woman, mild and unconscious, who had reformed by luck rather than by strength of character, who eked out her penitence--perhaps scarcely felt--by the ostentation of very questionable religious sentiment. It could not be _She_. "I'll press for information. She must tell me her history," he thought. "However I'm satisfied it's not she. I tell you it's not she! you imbecile, you idiot, you fool!" Then he remembered his first night at Nuoro and the secret kiss his father had pressed upon his forehead. He half expected that now his door would open and a furtive shadow would come in the trembling light of the little lamp and imitate that shamefaced kiss. "If it happens, what shall I do?" he asked himself, anxiously. "I'll pretend I'm asleep. But, good Lord! what a fool I am!" The noises in the street and in the neighbouring Piazza of the Pantheon grew fainter and fewer, as if themselves weary and retiring to a place of repose. The belated lodgers came in. Then all was silence in the house, in the street, in the city. But Anania still kept vigil. Perhaps the lamp---- "I'll put it out," he thought and got up. A noise! a rustle! Was the door opening? Oh God! He sprang back into bed, shut his eyes, waited. His heart and his throat pulsed feverishly. The door remained shut. He calmed himself and laughed. But the lamp was left still alight. IV Rome, _June_ 1st.