"Signora, don't worry about me, I have had trouble before, as you know, and no one can blame me for what is not my fault since you don't." Ragna looked at the girl in surprise at the simplicity with which she accepted the _fait accompli_, though it was characteristic of her and her race. She could see no reason for weeping over spilt milk, hers was the rational and childlike philosophy of the people--"_cosa fatta capo ha_," and a shrug of the shoulders for the inevitable. The one thought is to "rimediare" in the present. This state of mind appeared to Ragna so entirely enviable and sent her back over so long a train of thought in which she viewed her own experience for the first time with new eyes, and perceiving the uselessness of her futile beating against the bars of her fate, that with difficulty she brought herself back to a sense of the present. She remembered that the maid had not answered her last question. "Tell me, Carolina, since you did not come to me at once, what has obliged you to speak now?" "Signora," said the girl passionately, "the Padrone looks at me from under his eyebrows, in a way I don't like--I said I was not afraid but I am. I hate him, I can't breathe the same air with him, and before he does anything to me,--or before I go mad and kill him, it is better for me to go." Ragna stroked the maid's hair absent-mindedly; the Venetian had been with her more than five years now; it would be hard to part with her, for she was entirely devoted to her mistress and the children, especially Mimmo, but it was clearly impossible to keep her longer. Ragna sighed. "I am afraid you are right, Carolina. Yes, you must go, although you know how sorry I shall be to lose you. We will talk it over to-morrow, it is late now and I am tired. Run away to bed." Carolina took her mistress's hand and pressed her lips fervently upon it. "God bless you, Signora, and may you sleep well!" She closed the door silently after her. Ragna sat on in her armchair, immersed in thought, bowed down by this new burden of vicarious shame, outraged and indignant. As the clock struck twelve she heard her husband's latchkey grate in the outer door and she straightened herself up with flushed cheeks. "I will have it out with him here and now," she thought. "Egidio!" she called, as his step sounded in the passage. He entered the room, an expression of annoyed surprise on his face, called forth by his finding her still up. "Have you taken to sitting up for me?" he grunted. "I have been waiting for you, there is something I must speak to you about." "Well, out with it then, don't keep me waiting all night!" He leaned against a console, his overcoat unbuttoned and thrown back, his black felt hat pulled down over his eyes, one hand thrust in a pocket, the other brandishing his Tuscan cigar, the villainous fumes of which filled the air. "What are you going to do about Carolina?" she asked without preamble.