“And a bad memory for those whom you have loved,” suggested Beatrice with a smile.

“Have you any reason for saying that?” asked San Miniato gravely.  “You know too little of me and my life to judge of either.  I have not loved many, and I have remembered them well.”

“How many?  A dozen, more or less?  Or twenty?  Or a hundred?”

“Two.  One is dead, and one has forgotten me.”

Beatrice was silent.  It was admirably done, and for the first time he made her believe that he was in earnest.  It had not been very hard for him either, for there was a foundation of truth in what he said.  He had not always been a man without heart.

“It is much to have loved twice,” said the young girl at last, in a dreamy voice.  She was thinking of what had passed through her mind that afternoon.

“It is much—­but not enough.  What has never been lived out, is never enough.”

“Perhaps—­but who could love three times?”

“Any man—­and the third might be the best and the strongest, as well as the last.”

“To me it seems impossible.”

San Miniato had got his chance and he knew it.  He was nervous and not sure of himself, for he knew very well that she had but a passing attraction for him, beyond the very solid inducement to marry her offered by her fortune.  But he knew that the opportunity must not be lost, and he did not waste time.  He spoke quietly, not wishing to risk a dramatic effect until he could count on his own rather slight histrionic powers.

“So it seems impossible to you, Donna Beatrice,” he said, in a musing tone.  “Well, I daresay it does.  Many things must seem impossible to you which are rather startling facts to me.  I am older than you, I am a man, and I have been a soldier.  I have lived a life such as you cannot dream of—­not worse perhaps than that of many another man, but certainly not better.  And I am quite sure that if I gave you my history you would not understand four-fifths of it, and the other fifth would shock you.  Of course it would—­how could it be otherwise?  How could you and I look at anything from quite the same point of view?”

“And yet we often agree,” said Beatrice, thoughtfully.

“Yes, we do.  That is quite true.  And that is because a certain sympathy exists between us.  I feel that very much when I am with you, and that is one reason why I try to be with you as much as possible.”

“You say that is one reason.  Have you many others?” Beatrice tried to laugh a little, but she felt somehow that laughter was out of place and that a serious moment in her life had come at last, in which it would be wiser to be grave and to think well of what she was doing.

“One chief one, and many little ones,” answered San Miniato.  “You are good to me, you are young, you are fresh—­you are gifted and unlike the others, and you have a rare charm such as I never met in any woman.  Are those not all good reasons?  Are they not enough?”