“Who is your friend?” she asked.

“A Piedmontese,” answered San Miniato indifferently.  “You do not know him.”

“We are very sorry to lose you, especially to-day, San Miniato carissimo,” said the Marchesa.  “But if it cannot be helped—­well, good-bye.”

So San Miniato went out and left the mother and daughter together again as he had found them.  It is needless to say that the Piedmontese friend was a fiction, and that San Miniato had no engagement of that kind.  He had hastily resolved to keep one of a different nature because he guessed that in Beatrice’s present temper he would make matters more difficult by staying.  And in this he was right, for Beatrice had made up her mind to be thoroughly disagreeable and she possessed the elements of success requisite for that purpose—­a sharp tongue, a quick instinct and great presence of mind.

San Miniato descended the stairs and strolled out into the orange garden, looking at his watch as he left the door of the hotel.  It was very hot, but further away from the house the sea breeze was blowing through the trees.  He was still smoking the cigarette he had lighted upstairs, and he sat down on a bench in the shade, took out a pocket book and began to make notes.  From time to time he looked along the path in the direction of the hotel, which was hidden from view by the shrubbery.  Then the clock struck twelve and a few minutes later the church bells began to ring, as they do half a dozen times a day in Italy on small provocation.  Still San Miniato went on with his calculations.

Before many minutes more had passed, a trim young figure appeared in the path—­a young girl, with pink cheeks and bright dark eyes, no other than Teresina, the Marchesa’s maid.  She carried some sewing in her hand and looked nervously behind her and to the right and left as she walked.  But there was no one in the garden at that hour.  The guests of the hotel were all at breakfast, and the servants were either asleep or at work indoors.  The porter was at his dinner and the sailors were presumably eating their midday bread and cheese down by the boats, or dining at their homes if they lived near by.  The breeze blew pleasantly through the trees, making the broad polished leaves rustle and the little green oranges rock on the boughs.

As soon as San Miniato caught sight of Teresina he put his note-book into his pocket and rose to his feet.  His face betrayed neither pleasure nor surprise as he sauntered along the path, until he was close to her.  Then both stopped, and he smiled, bending down and looking into her eyes.

“For charity’s sake, Signor Conte!” cried the girl, drawing back, blushing and looking behind her quickly.  “I ought never to have come here.  Why did you make me come?”

“What an idea, Teresina!” laughed San Miniato softly.  “And if you ask me why I wanted you to come, here is the reason.  Now tell me, Teresinella, is it a good reason or not?”