"And if you take my advice, you will be doing what is fair and honest by Regina as well as by yourself.

Your own conscience must tell you that." Poor Marcello was not very sure what had become of his own conscience during the past year, and Folco's arguments swayed him as he groped for something definite to follow, and found nothing but what Corbario chose to thrust into his hand.
As they stood by the table, a servant brought a note on a little salver, holding it out to them as if he were not sure which of them was to receive it.

Both glanced at the address; it was for Corbario, who took it quickly and put it into his pocket; but Marcello had recognised the handwriting--that rather cramped feminine hand of a woman who has seen better days, in which Settimia kept accounts for Regina.

The latter insisted that an account should be kept of the money which Marcello gave her, and that he should see it from time to time.

At the first moment, being absorbed with other matters, and inwardly much engaged in the pursuit of his own conscience, which eluded him at every turn like a figure in a dream, he paid no attention to what he had seen; but the writing had impressed itself on his memory.
They had been lunching in Folco's sitting-room, and Corbario made an excuse to go into his bedroom for a moment, saying that he wanted certain cigars that his man had put away.