“Perhaps I should, too.  I am not sure that the conclusion would have been so satisfactory, if I had undertaken to persuade Beatrice.  She is headstrong and capricious, and so painfully energetic!  Every discussion with her shortens my life by a year.”

“She is an angel in her caprice,” answered the Count with conviction.  “Indeed, much of her charm lies in her changing moods.”

“If she is an angel, what am I?” asked the Marchesa.  “Such a contrast!”

“She is the angel of motion—­you are the angel of repose.”

“You are delightful to-night.”

While this conversation was taking place, Beatrice had wandered away over the rocks alone, not heeding the unevenness of the stones and taking little notice of the direction of her walk.  She only knew that she would not go back to the place where she had sat, not for all the world.  A change had taken place already and she was angry with herself for what she had done in all sincerity.

She was hurt and her first illusion had suffered a grave shock almost at the moment of its birth.  She asked herself how it could be possible, if San Miniato loved her as he had said he did, that he should not feel as she felt and understand love as she did—­as something secret and sacred, to be kept from other eyes.  Her instinct told her easily enough that San Miniato was at that very moment telling her mother all that had taken place, and she bitterly resented the thought.  It would surely have been enough, if he had waited until the following day and then formally asked her hand of the Marchesa.  It would have been better, more natural in every way, just now when they had gone up to the table, if he had said simply that they loved one another and had asked her mother’s blessing.  Anything rather than to feel that he was coolly describing the details of the first love scene in her life—­the thousandth, perhaps, in his own.

After all, did she love him?  Did he really love her?  His passionate manner when he had seized her hand had moved her strangely, and she had listened with a sort of girlish wonder to his declarations of devotion afterwards.  But now, in the, calm moonlight and quite alone, she could hear Ruggiero’s deep strong voice in her ears, and the few manly words he had uttered.  There was not much in them in the way of eloquence—­a sailor’s picturesque phrase—­she had heard something like it before.  But there had been strength, and the power to do, and the will to act in every intonation of his speech.  She remembered every word San Miniato had spoken, far better than he would remember it himself in a day or two, and she was ready to analyse and criticise now what had charmed and pleased her a moment earlier.  Why was he going over it all to her mother, like a lesson learnt and repeated?  She was so glad to be alone—­she would have been so glad to think alone of what she had taken for the most delicious moment of her young life.  If he were really in