Without a look, without a sign, at that moment they understood each other, and each knew it. Regina thought Antonio's face darkened, but she did not dare to look at him. She went on eating, and only after a minute raised her head and laughed. Why at that moment she laughed she never knew. "I was awake all night," she said; "I felt just like a widow." "Well, wouldn't you like to be a widow? I know quite well you don't love me any longer," he answered, half fun, whole earnest. "Oh, _zielo_!" said Regina, light and cruel, imitating the cry of heartless jest which she had heard from a spectator at a popular theatre, "what a tragedy of a honeymoon gone wrong!" Then changing her voice, but still satirical, "On the contrary, my dear, it's you who want to be a widower." "I don't see it." "It's true." "How do you make it out?" "Why, what would happen if you were a widower? You'd marry again at once. You're one of the men who can't enjoy life alone--who are no good living alone. I'm sorry for those men." "You are sorry for me?" "I pity you heartily." "Why? Because I am your husband?" "Yes, because you're my husband. Take away!" said Regina to the maid, pushing her plate aside contemptuously. When they were again alone, she added, "Next time don't be so stupid as to marry a _poor_ woman." He looked at her, and she thought his eyes were illuminated by a flash of anger, cold, metallic, such as she had never seen in him. "_I_ shouldn't know what to do with riches," he answered quietly. The servant reappeared at the door, and Regina was silent, struck with a sense of chill. It appeared to her that Antonio's words had an intention of dogged defence, a sharp and crushing reproach like a blow. She felt herself mortally wounded. The strife was beginning then? For to-day they said no more. On the contrary, after their meal they went together to their room and took their siesta in company, and before going out Antonio kissed his wife with his accustomed slightly languid but affectionate tenderness. But from henceforth Regina fancied he would be on guard ready to defend himself at all points. After this they bickered continually. She found annoyance in nothings, criticising all his little defects, and accusing him veiledly in a manner that he ought to understand if he were guilty. Antonio defended himself, but without too much heat, too much offence. She could not avoid the thought that he feared to drive her to extremities, and great sadness overwhelmed her. Why were they each so cowardly? Why did she not dare to confront him openly, though all within her, all her thoughts, recollections, instincts, rose up against him and accused him? Well, at last she confessed it to herself. She was afraid; afraid of the truth. Above all, she was afraid of herself. She believed that nothing kept her generous, enabled her to contemplate pardon, but the hope she was deceived. If it were certainly true, would she pardon? Sometimes she feared she would not.