At that moment in her meditations she heard the tread of a man’s heel on the rocks.  The sailors were all barefoot, and she knew it must be San Miniato.  Unwilling to be alone with him even for a minute, she sprang lightly forward to meet him as he came.  He held out his hand to help her, but she refused it by a gesture and hurried on.

“I have been speaking with your mother,” he said, trying to take advantage of the thirty or forty yards that still remained to be traversed.

“So I suppose, as I left you together,” she answered in a hard voice.  “I have been talking to Ruggiero.”

“Has anything displeased you, Beatrice?” asked San Miniato, surprised by her manner.

“No.  Why do you call me Beatrice?” Her tone was colder than ever.

“I suppose I might be permitted—­”

“You are not.”

San Miniato looked at her in amazement, but they were already within earshot of the Marchesa, who had not moved from her long chair, and he did not risk anything more, not knowing what sort of answer he might get.  But he was no novice, and as soon as he thought over the situation he remembered others similar to it in his experience, and he understood well enough that a sensitive young girl might feel ashamed of having shown too much feeling, or might have taken offence at some detail in his conduct which had entirely escaped his own notice.  Young and vivacious women are peculiarly subject to this sort of sensitiveness, as he was well aware.  There was nothing to be done but to be quiet, attentive in small things, and to wait for fair weather again.  After all, he had crossed the Rubicon, and had been very well received on the other side.  It would not be easy to make him go back again.

“My angel,” said the Marchesa, throwing away the end of her cigarette, “you have caught cold.  We must go home immediately.”

“Yes, mamma.”

With all her languor and laziness and selfishness, the Marchesa was not devoid of tact, least of all where her own ends were concerned, and when she took the trouble to have any object in life at all.  She saw in her daughter’s face that something had annoyed her, and she at once determined that no reference should be made to the great business of the moment, and that it would be best to end the evening in general conversation, leaving San Miniato no further opportunity of being alone with Beatrice.  She guessed well enough that the girl was not really in love, but had yielded in a measure to the man’s practised skill in love-making, but she was really anxious that the result should be permanent.

Beatrice was grateful to her for putting an end to the situation.  The young girl was pale and her bright eyes had suddenly grown tired and heavy.  She sat down beside her mother and shaded her brow against the lamp with her hand, while San Miniato went to give orders about returning.

“My dear child,” said the Marchesa, “I am converted; it has been a delightful excursion; we have had an excellent dinner, and I am not at all tired.  I am sure you have given yourself quite as much trouble about it as San Miniato.”