"Will you put me into it?" said Regina, powdering herself spitefully. The white powder clouded even the looking-glass, and Regina thought-- "Gabrie must find me changed, and she'll be guessing the reason." She knew she was cross, and felt vexed that she could not command herself. But Gabrie coughed on and made no reply. They went out together. "Where are you going?" asked Regina. "Home to my studies." "Come with me. There'll be matter for an authoress's study. Imagine a room, with ten ladies, all mortal enemies, because each one is afraid she isn't so well dressed as the others!" "In my books, if ever I write any, there'll be nothing so banal. It's useless for you to take me '_in giro_.'"[8] [8] _Prendere in giro_: To take round with one. To make fun of. They both laughed at the pun, but Regina felt that the laugh rang false. She could not make out whether Gabrie suspected her of reading the note-book. "Good-bye," they said, without shaking hands. The girl went off towards Via Torino and Regina turned in the direction of Via Depretis, holding her smart dress very high. In the silence of the deserted pavement her silk petticoat rustled like the dead leaves of autumn. She was thinking of Gabrie, who had flown to her garret like a bee to its hive, and who had an object in this stupid life. She walked on, but did not know whither she was going. She went a long way, aimlessly; down and up Via Nazionale; then, scarcely noticing it, she found herself in Via Sistina, going towards the Pincio. Her troubled thoughts followed her like the rustle of her skirts. On the Pincio she found the nurse with Caterina, and they sat together on one of the terrace benches. There was no music, but the fine day had attracted a crowd of foreigners and carriages. From the bench (while the baby bent from the arms of the stooping nurse, picked up stones, examined them gravely, then still more gravely offered them to another baby,) Regina watched the circling carriages. Slowly she passed under something of a spell as she gazed at the too luminous, too tranquil, too beautiful picture--the pearly sky, the flowery trees among the green trees, the charmingly attired idle figures, the faces like paintings upon china. As in the background of a stage picture, the beautiful shining horses, the carriages full of fair women, passed and re-passed in a kind of rhythmical course, which fascinated with a sleepy fascination like that of running water. Once Regina's envy of those fine ladies in their carriages had swollen even to sinful hatred. Now, from the depths of the stupor which overwhelmed her, she felt sorry for them, for the tedium of their existence, their uselessness, their rhythmical course--always the same, always equal, as on the park roads, so also in their lives. "Let us go. It's turning cold," said the nurse.