“In the first place,” replied Beatrice, firmly, “I shall never marry any one.  That is absolutely certain.  In the next place, I shall not re-read the novel; and to prove that I shan’t, I shall insist on your taking it with you when you leave to-day.  And finally, I’m nowhere near convinced that you’re right about my being . . . well, you might as well say the raw material, the rough ore, as the virgin gold.  It’s only a bare possibility.  But even the possibility had not occurred to me before.  Now that it has, I shall be on my guard.  I shall know how to prevent any possible developments.”

“In the first place,” said Mrs. O’Donovan Florence, with equal firmness, “wild horses couldn’t induce me to take the novel.  Wait till you’re alone.  A hundred questions about it will come flocking to your mind; you’d be miserable if you had n’t it to refer to.  In the next place, the poison will work and work.  Say what you will, it’s flattery that wins us.  In the third place, he’ll tell you.  Finally, you’ll make a good Catholic of him, and marry him.  It’s absurd, it’s iniquitous, anyhow, for a young and beautiful woman like you to remain a widow.  And your future husband is a man of talent and distinction, and he’s not bad-looking, either.  Will you stick to your title, now, I wonder?  Or will you step down, and be plain Mrs. Marchdale?  No—­the Honourable Mrs.—­excuse me—­’Mr. and the Honourable Mrs. Marchdale.’  I see you in the ‘Morning Post’ already.  And will you continue to live in Italy?  Or will you come back to England?”

“Oh, my good Kate, my sweet Kate, my incorrigible Kate, what an extravagantly silly Kate you can be when the mood takes you,” Beatrice laughed.

“Kate me as many Kates as you like, the man is really not bad-looking.  He has a nice lithe springy figure, and a clean complexion, and an open brow.  And if there’s a suggestion of superciliousness in the tilt of his nose, of scepticism in the twirl of his moustaches, and of obstinacy in the squareness of his chin—­ma foi, you must take the bitter with the sweet.  Besides, he has decent hair, and plenty of it—­he’ll not go bald.  And he dresses well, and wears his clothes with an air.  In short, you’ll make a very handsome couple.  Anyhow, when your family are gathered round the evening lamp to-night, I ’ll stake my fortune on it, but I can foretell the name of the book they’ll find Trixie Belfont reading,” laughed Mrs. O’Donovan Florence.

For a few minutes, after her friend had left her, Beatrice sat still, her head resting on her hand, and gazed with fixed eyes at Monte Sfiorito.  Then she rose, and walked briskly backwards and forwards, for a while, up and down the terrace.  Presently she came to a standstill, and leaning on the balustrade, while one of her feet kept lightly tapping the pavement, looked off again towards the mountain.