did not talk at all.  Nevertheless, he managed to show enough assiduity to keep himself continually in the foreground of Beatrice’s thoughts.  Being almost constantly present she could not easily forget him, and he held his ground with a determination which kept other men away.  When a man can make a woman think of him half-a-dozen times a day and can prevent other men from taking his place when he is beside her, he is in a fair way to success.

On a certain evening San Miniato had a final interview with the Marchesa di Mola in which he expressed all that he felt for Beatrice, including a little more, and in which he described his not very prosperous financial condition with mitigated frankness.  The Marchesa listened dreamily in the darkness on the terrace while her daughter played soft dance music in the dimly lighted room behind her.  Beatrice probably had an idea of what was going on outside, upon the terrace, and was trying to make up her own mind.  She played waltzes very prettily, as women who dance well generally do, if they play at all.

When San Miniato had finished, the Marchesa was silent for a few seconds.  Then she tapped her companion twice upon the arm with her fan, in a way which would have seemed lazy in any one else, but which, for her, was unusually energetic.

“How well you say it all!” she exclaimed.

“And you consent, dear Marchesa?” asked the Count, with an eagerness not all feigned.

“You say it all so well!  If I could say it half so well to Beatrice—­there might be some possibility.  But Beatrice is not like me—­nor I like you—­and so—­”

She broke off in the middle of the sentence with an indolent little laugh.

“If she were like you,” said San Miniato, “I would not hesitate long.”

There was an intonation in his voice that pleased the middle-aged woman, as he had intended.

“What would you do?” she asked, fanning herself slowly in the dark.

“I would speak to her myself.”

“Heavens!” Again the Marchesa laughed.  The idea seemed eccentric enough in her eyes.

“Why not?”

“Why not?  Dearest San Miniato, do not try to make me argue such insane questions with you.  You know how lazy I am.  I can never talk.”

“A woman need not talk in order to be persuaded.  It is enough that the man should.  Let me try.”

“I will shut my ears.”

“I will kneel at your feet.”

“I shall go to sleep.”

“I could wake you.”

“How?”

“By telling you that I mean to speak to Donna Beatrice myself.”

“Such an idea would wake the dead!”

“So much the better.  They would hear me.”

“They would not help you, if they heard you,” observed the Marchesa.

“They could at least bear witness to the answer I should receive.”

“And suppose, dear friend, that the answer should not be what you wish, or expect—­would you care to have witnesses, alive or dead?”