Then she thought of what must happen after her marriage, when he had got her fortune and could take her away to the society in which he had always lived.  There, of course, he would meet women by the score with whom he was and long had been on terms of social intimacy far closer than he had reached with her in the few weeks of their acquaintance.  Doubtless, he would spend such time as he could spare from gambling, in conversation with them.  Doubtless, he had many thoughts and memories and associations in common with them.  Doubtless, people would smile a little and pity the young countess.  And Beatrice resented pity and the thought of it.  She would rather pity others.

Evil thoughts crossed her young brain, and she said to herself that she might perhaps be revenged upon the world for what she was suffering, for the pain that had already come into her young life, for the wretched years she anticipated in the future, for her mother’s horrible logic which had forced her into the marriage, above all for San Miniato’s cleverly arranged scene by which the current of her existence had been changed.  San Miniato had perhaps gone too far when he had said that Beatrice was kind.  She, at least, felt that there was anything but kindness in her heart now, and she desired nothing so much as to make some one suffer something of what she felt.  It was wicked, doubtless, as she admitted to herself.  It was bad and wrong and cruel, but it was not heartless.  A woman without heart would not have felt enough to resent having felt at all, and moreover would probably be perfectly well satisfied with the situation.

The expression of hardness deepened in the young girl’s face as she sat there, silently thinking over all that was to come, and glancing from time to time at her mother’s placid countenance.  It was really amazing to see how much the Marchesa could bear when she was actually roused to a sense of the necessity for action.  Her constitution must have been far stronger than any one supposed.  She must indeed have been in considerable anxiety about the success of her plans, more than once during the past few days.  Yet she was outwardly almost as unruffled and as lazy as ever.

“Dearest child,” she said at last, “of course, as I have said, I cannot argue the point with you.  No one could, in your present state of mind.  But there is one thing which I must say, and which I am sure you will be quite ready to understand.”

Beatrice said nothing, but slowly turned her head towards her mother with a look of inquiry.

“I only want to say, my angel, that whatever you may think of San Miniato, and however much you may choose to let him know what you think, it may be quite possible to act with more civility than you have used during the last few days.”

“Is that all?” asked Beatrice with a hard laugh.  “How nicely you turn your phrases when you lecture me, mamma!  So you wish me to be civil.  Very well, I will try.”