The hours passed. The city became silent. It slept, like a greedy child to whom dainties are promised. Regina could not sleep, but she was not insensible to the kindness and the warmth. The little snail had looked out from the window of its shell and seen the sun shining on the grass. Melodious sound of bells trembled and oscillated on the quiet night. One seemed to come from beyond a river, grave, sonorous, nostalgic. To her surprise Regina found herself repeating certain lines of Prati's, which she was not conscious of having known before. Whence did they arise? Perhaps from the depths of her subconsciousness, evoked by the nostalgic song of the bells on that first Christmas of exile. "Dreaming of home and of the country ways, The village feastings and the green spring days." She repeated the lines many times to herself with sing-song monotony, which ended by putting her asleep. She dreamed she was at home. Her young sister played "Stefánia" on her mandoline. Regina saw the mandoline distinctly and its inlaid picture of a troubadour with a mandola. The little black cat was listening, rather bored, and yawning ostentatiously. Outside fell the evening, violet-grey, velvety, silent. Suddenly a perplexed visage with gold-rimmed eye-glasses started up behind the window-panes. Regina laughed so loud that she woke her husband. "Whatever is it?" he asked in alarm. "His Excellency," she murmured, still dreaming. Next morning, on awakening, Antonio found Regina in tears. "You were laughing last night--now you cry," he said, with slight impatience. "Can't you explain what on earth's the matter with you?" "Nothing." "Nothing! You're crying! What are you crying about? I can't bear it any longer! Why do you torment me like this?" She took his hand and passed it over her eyes. He repented. "What is it? What is it? Tell me--only tell me, Regina, Regina!" he urged, tenderly and anxiously. "It has nothing to do with you," she said, hiding her face on his breast, "it's all my own fault. I don't know why, but I can't conquer the past--the homesickness--and I'm afraid of the future." He also felt a mysterious fear. "Why are you afraid of the future?" "Because--I suppose because we are poor. Rome is so horrid for the poor." "But, Regina, we aren't poor!" he exclaimed with increasing alarm, "and, anyhow, don't we love each other?" "To love--to vegetate--it's not enough--not enough," she murmured. "But you knew all about it, Regina!" "I knew and I know. I'm furious with myself that I can't overcome my aversion to this _bourgeois_ life." "But after all--down there at your home--what sort of life were you leading?" "Oh, Antonio! I had dreams!" Antonio understood the anguish in that cry, and tried to lull her sorrow for the time being, administering as to a sick person an innocuous soothing mixture.