So Beatrice, who could never love Ruggiero, understood him well and judged him rightly, and set him up on a sort of pedestal as the anti-type of his scheming master.  And not only this.  She felt deeply for him and pitied him with all her heart, since she had seen his own almost breaking before her eyes for her sake.  She had always been kind to him, but henceforth there would be something even kinder in her voice when she spoke to him, as there would be something harder in her tone when she talked with San Miniato.

And now her mother had appeared and settled herself in her lazy way upon her long chair, and slowly moved her fan, from habit, though too indolent to lift it to her face.  Beatrice rose and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

“Good morning, mamma carissima,” she said.  “Are you very tired after the excursion?”

“Exhausted, in mind and body, my angel.  A cigarette, my dear—­it will give me an appetite.”

Beatrice brought her one, and held a match for her mother.  Then the Marchesa shut her eyes, inhaled the smoke and blew out four or five puffs before speaking again.

“I want to speak to you, my child,” she said at last, “but I hardly have the strength.”

“Do not tire yourself, mamma.  I know what you are going to say, and I have made up my mind.”

“Have you?  That will save me infinite trouble.  I am so glad.”

“Are you really?  Do you know what I mean?”

“Of course.  You are going to marry San Miniato, and we have the best excuse in the world for going to Paris to see about your trousseau.”

“I will not marry San Miniato,” said Beatrice.  “I have made up my mind that I will not.”

The Marchesa started slightly as she took her cigarette from her lips, and turned her head slowly so that she could look into Beatrice’s eyes.

“You are engaged to marry him,” she said slowly.  “You cannot break your word.  You know what that means.  Indeed, you are quite mad!”

“Engaged?  I?  I never gave my word!  It is not true!” The blood rose, in Beatrice’s face and then sank suddenly away.

“What is this comedy?” asked the Marchesa, raising her brows.  For the first time in many years she was almost angry.

“Ah!  If you ask me that, I will tell you.  I will tell you everything and you know that I speak the truth to you as I do to everybody—­”

“Except to San Miniato when you tell him you love him,” interrupted the Marchesa.

Beatrice blushed again, with anger this time.

“Yes,” she said, after a short pause, “it is quite true that I said I loved him, and for one moment I meant it.  But I made a mistake.  I am sorry, and I will tell him so.  But I will tell him other things, too.  I will tell him that I saw through his acting before we left Tragara last night, and that I will never forgive him for the part he played.  You know as well as I that it was all a play, from beginning to end.  I liked him