"I'm not displeased," she said, putting her hands on his breast.
"But neither are you pleased. You aren't my Regina of the river-side. Your face is long, your eyes are far away. You don't seem to care that you're in Rome - Rome of your dreams."
"It's the weather - the weather," she said in a dull voice.
"The weather will clear up," said Antonio, taking her to the window. "You'll see how beautiful Rome is in fine weather! It's almost always fine, and never cold. Just see all the gardens! Even here in Via Torino there's so much green. Shall we look out a bit? It's not raining now."
He opened the French window. Regina stepped out among the flower-pots - filled with consumptive little plants, on whose sparse leaves the melancholy of the grey sky was reflected. She looked down on the wet and deserted street.
Taking shelter under a doorway was a little old woman, dressed in black, and with a meagre basket of lemons by her side. She was hurriedly wringing out her stockings, and she was pale, huddled up, shaking with cold.
Regina had noticed her in the morning, and now, instead of admiring the palaces and gardens squeezing up her eyes to see distinctly from this altitude of fifth storey she looked again at the little old woman with the withered lemons.
Antonio pointed out the Costanzi Theatre, and tried to cheer her by saying that Bellincioni was expected at Carnival time.
"Just think, little one! You shall hear Bellincioni!"
