better than the others because I thought him more manly, more honest, more dignified.  But I have changed my mind.  I see the whole truth now, every detail of it.  He planned it all, and he did it very well—­probably he planned it the night before last, out here with you, while I was playing waltzes.  You could not make me marry him, and he got leave of you to speak to me.  Do you think I do not understand it all?  Would you have let me go away last night and sit with him on the rocks, out of your hearing, without so much as a remark, unless you had arranged the matter between you?  It is not like you, and I know you meant it.  It was all a plot.  He had even been there to study the place, to see the very point at which the moon would rise, the very place where he would make me sit, the very spot where your table could stand.  He said to himself that I was a mere girl, that of course no man had ever made love to me and that between the beauty of the night, my liking for him, and his well arranged comedy, he might easily move me.  He did.  I am ashamed of it.  Look at the blood in my cheeks!  That tells the truth, at all events.  I am utterly ashamed.  I would give my right hand to have not spoken those words!  I would almost give my life to undo yesterday if it could be undone—­and undo it I will, so far as I can.  I will tell San Miniato what I think of myself, and then I will tell him what I think of him, and that will be enough.  Do you understand me?  I am in earnest.”

The Marchesa had listened to Beatrice’s long speech with open eyes, surprised at the girl’s keenness and at her determined manner.  Not that the latter was new in her experience, but it was the first time that their two wills had been directly opposed in a matter of great importance.  The Marchesa was a very indolent person, but somewhere in her nature there lay hidden a small store of determination which had hardly ever expressed itself clearly in her life.  Now, however, she felt that much was at stake.  For many reasons San Miniato was precisely the son-in-law she desired.  He would give Beatrice an ancient and honourable name, a leading position in any Italian society he chose to frequent, whether in the north or the south, and he was a man of the world at all points.  The last consideration had much weight with the Marchesa who, in spite of her title and fortune had seen very little of the men of the great world, and admired them accordingly.  Therefore when Beatrice said she would not marry him, her mother made up her mind that she should, and the struggle commenced.

“Beatrice, my angel,” she began, “you are mistaken in yourself and in San Miniato.  I am quite unable to go through all the details as you have done.  I only say that you are mistaken.”

Beatrice’s lip curled a little and she slowly shook her head.

“I am not mistaken, mamma,” she answered.  “I am quite right, and you know it.  Can you deny that what I say is true?  Can you say that you did not arrange with him to take me to Tragara, and to let him speak to me himself?”