The Master and Signora Tagliamari sat on a blue Louis XV sofa at the end of the room, and talked quietly. Now and then they threw a glance at Regina, who scarcely tried to conceal her sadness and disquiet. The Master, hoping she was listening, talked of the dreams and ambitions of his children. "Well, as they wish it, we must let them work and conquer the world. What can they do here? Be a school-master? A school-mistress? No, thank you!" "But if they go away, won't you miss them very much?" "That's not the question, Signora Caterina! It's like a tearing out of the vitals when the young ones leave the parents. But the parents have brought them into the world to see them live, not vegetate. Ah, my children!" said the Master, stretching out his arms with great emotion, "the nest will remain empty and the old father will end his days in sorrow as, in truth, he began them; but in his heart, Signora Caterina, in his heart he will say with great joy, 'I have done my duty. I have taught my little ones to fly!' Oh, that my parents had done as much for me. Ah!" Regina still looked out. She heard the Master's babble; she heard the fresh voices and the laughter of the three young girls who were strolling along the river; she watched the sky grow pale, diaphanous, tender green like some delicate crystal, flecked with little wandering clouds like a flight of violet-grey birds. She began to feel irritated. She knew not why. Perhaps because the girls made too much noise, or the Master was talking nonsense, or the postman did not appear out of the lonely distance. The Master pulled a note-book from his pocket, and, interrupting himself now and then to explain that he did it without his daughter's knowledge, began to read aloud some of Gabrie's sketches. "Listen to this! See how cleverly she observes people! It's a character for a future novel. My Gabrie is always on the look-out. She sees a character, observes, sets it all down. She's like those careful housewives who preserve everything in case it may come in useful. Listen to this!" And he read: "'A young lady of eighteen, of titled but worn-out family, anæmic, insincere, vain, envious, ambitious; knows how to hide her faults under a cold sweetness which appears natural. She is always talking of the aristocracy. Some one once told her she resembled a Virgin of Botticelli's, and ever since she has adopted a pose of sentiment and ecstasy.' Isn't it excellent, Signora Caterina?" "Yes, indeed; quite excellent!" said the lady, with gentle acquiescence. "Regina, come and listen. Hear how Gabrie is going to write her novel. It's quite excellent."