Marcello's mother asked herself whether she had done well in rearing him
as a being apart from those amongst whom he must spend his life.

And yet, as she looked at him, he seemed to be so nearly the ideal of
which she had dreamt throughout long years of loving care that she was
comforted, and the shadow passed away from her sweet face. He had
answered that she could do nothing that was not right; she prayed that
his words might be near the truth, and in her heart she was willing to
believe that they were almost true. Had she not followed every good
impulse of her own good heart? Had she not tried to realize literally
for him the most beautiful possibilities of the Christian faith? That,
at least, was true, and she could tell herself so without any mistaken
pride. How, then, had she made any mistake? The boy had the face of a
young saint.

"Are you ready, my dear?" she asked suddenly, as a far-off clock struck.

"Yes, mother, quite ready."

"I am not," she answered with a little laugh. "And Folco is waiting, and
I hear the carriage driving up."

She slipped from Marcello's side and left the room quickly, for they
were going to drive down to the sea, to a little shooting-lodge that
belonged to them near Nettuno, a mere cottage among the trees by the
Roman shore, habitable only in April and May, and useful only then, when
the quail migrate along the coast and the malarious fever is not yet to
be feared. It was there that Marcello had first learned to handle a gun,
spending a week at a time there with his stepfather; and his mother used
to come down now and then for a day or two on a visit, sometimes
bringing her friend the Contessa dell' Armi. The latter had been very
unhappy in her youth, and had been left a widow with one beautiful girl
and a rather exiguous fortune. Some people thought that it was odd that
the Signora Corbario, who was a saint if ever there was one, should have
grown so fond of the Contessa, for the latter had seen stormy days in
years gone by; and of course the ill-disposed gossips made up their
minds that the Contessa was trying to catch Marcello for her daughter
Aurora, though the child was barely seventeen.

This was mere gossip, for she was quite incapable of any such scheme.
What the gossips did not know was something which would have interested
them much more, namely, that the Contessa was the only person in Rome
who distrusted Folco Corbario, and that she was in constant fear lest
she sho