So he quietly conveyed to the Marchesa the information that he understood Beatrice’s present mood and that he would not attach more importance to it than it deserved.  They talked a little longer together, both for the present avoiding any reference to the important arrangements which must soon be discussed in connection with the marriage contract, but both taking it entirely for granted that the marriage itself was quite agreed upon and settled.

Then Beatrice returned and sat down silently by the table.

“Have you been for a little walk, my angel?” enquired her mother.

“Yes, mamma, I have been for a little walk.”

“You are not tired then, after our excursion, Donna Beatrice?” enquired San Miniato.

“Not in the least,” answered the young girl, taking up a book and beginning to read.

“Beatrice!” exclaimed her mother in amazement.  “My child!  What are you reading!  Maupassant!  Have you quite forgotten yourself?”

“I am trying to, mamma.  And since I am to be married—­what difference does it make?”

She spoke without laying down the volume.  San Miniato pretended to pay no attention to the incident, and slowly rolled a fat cigarette between his fingers to soften it before smoking.  The Marchesa made gestures to Beatrice with an unusual expenditure of energy, but with no effect.

“It seems very interesting,” said the latter.  “I had no idea he wrote so well.  It seems to be quite different from Telemaque—­more amusing in every way.”

Then the Marchesa did what she had not done in many years.  She asserted her parental authority.  Very lazily she put her feet to the ground, laid her fan, her handkerchief and her cigarette case together, and rose to her feet.  Coming round the table she took the forbidden book out of Beatrice’s hands, shut it up and put it back in its place.  Beatrice made no opposition, but raised her broad eyebrows wearily and folded her hands in her lap.

“Of course, if you insist, I have nothing to say,” she remarked, “any more than I have anything to do since you will not let me read.”

The Marchesa went back to her lounge and carefully arranged her belongings and settled herself comfortably before she spoke.

“I think you are a little out of temper, Beatrice dear, or perhaps you are hungry, my child.  You so often are.  San Miniato, what time is it?”

“A quarter before twelve,” answered the Count.

“Of course you will breakfast with us.  Ring the bell, dearest friend.  We will not wait any longer.”

San Miniato rose and touched the button.

“You are as hospitable as you are good,” he said.  “But if you will forgive me, I will not accept your invitation to-day.  An old friend of mine is at the other hotel for a few hours and I have promised to breakfast with him.  Will you excuse me?”

Beatrice made an almost imperceptible gesture of indifference with her hand.