Doubtless Antonio had thought of her while he was making love to the rich old woman; his disgust, shame, rancour, had been so violent as to project themselves to her, across space, in the very depths of her subconsciousness. Out of that same depth now rose the memory; and the inductions which accompanied it were some sort of comfort to Regina. But what miserable comfort! Suppose he had sold himself with disgust, shame, rancour? Still he had sold himself. Suppose it had been for love of herself? Still he had sold himself; he had been capable of that! Regina pitied him, because she saw the pitiable side. But she felt that henceforth in her heart there was room for no other kindly sentiment. All was ruined; and among the grey vestiges trembled only the yellow flowers of pity--too frail to survive among ruins. But if not a word of it was true? In dark hours the strongest soul becomes the prey of superstition. The dream had been only a dream. In any case, it had knitted itself strangely to reality by the 10,000 _lire_, the beautiful Apartment, Marianna's laugh. Marianna! Ah! She at any rate would _know_! For a space Regina thought of summoning her. "I will _make_ her speak--by violence if necessary! I will send the nurse and the maid out of the house! I'm stronger than Marianna!" She closed her fist and looked at it to assure herself of her strength. "If she won't speak, I'll crush her. I'll cry: 'Oh, you who always speak the truth, speak it now!'" Already she heard her voice, echoing through the warm silence of her drawing-room. What would Marianna reply? She would probably laugh. And suppose none of it were true? Pride pierced Regina's soul and destroyed the half-formed, indecorous, senseless project. "Neither Marianna nor any one. I will find out myself." But after a few moments the turmoil in her thoughts recommenced, and she formed other romantic and irrational projects. She would follow Antonio. Some fine night he would go out, and, after strolling hither and thither for an hour, he would open the iron gate leading to Madame's garden, the gate of which Massimo had said, "Here is the entrance for her lovers." Antonio would go in. Regina would wait outside in the deserted street, in the shadow of the corner. Some one would pass and look at her with brutal eyes, imagining her a night wanderer; but she would take no offence. Why should she take offence? Was she not lower than the lowest of night wanderers? Were not her very clothes woven of shame? Hours of silent torture would pass.