eak of what concerns life and death!" sighed San
Miniato. "No--Beatrice did not answer immediately. I said much more--far
more than I can remember. How can you ask me to repeat word for word the
unpremeditated outpourings of a happy passion? The flood has swept by,
leaving deep traces--but who can remember where the eddies and rapids
were?"

"You are very poetical, caro mio. Your language delights me--it is the
language of the heart. Pray give me one of those little cigarettes you
smoke. Yes--and a light--and now the least drop of champagne. I will
drink your health."

"And I both yours and Beatrice's," answered San Miniato, filling his own
glass.

"You may put Beatrice first, since she is yours."

"But without you there would be no Beatrice, gentilissima," said the
Count gallantly, when he had emptied his glass.

"That is true, and pretty besides. And so," continued the Marchesa in a
tone of languid reflection, "you have actually been making love to my
daughter, beyond my hearing, alone on the rocks--and I gave you my
permission, and now you are engaged to be married! It is too
extraordinary to be believed. That was not the way I was married. There
was more formality in those days."

Indeed, she could not imagine the deceased Granmichele throwing himself
upon his knees at her feet, even upon the softest of carpets.

"Then I thank the fates that those days are over!" returned San Miniato.

"Perhaps I should, too. I am not sure that the conclusion would have
been so satisfactory, if I had undertaken to persuade Beatrice. She is
headstrong and capricious, and so painfully energetic! Every discussion
with her shortens my life by a year."

"She is an angel in her caprice," answered the Count with conviction.
"Indeed, much of her charm lies in her changing moods."

"If she is an angel, what am I?" asked the Marchesa. "Such a contrast!"

"She is the angel of motion--you are the angel of repose."

"You are delightful to-night."

While this conversation was taking place, Beatrice had wandered away
over the rocks alone, not heeding the unevenness of the stones and
taking little notice of the direction of her walk. She only knew that
she would not go back to the place where she had sat, not for all the
world. A change had taken place already and she was angry with herself
for what she had done in all sincerity.

She was hurt and her first illusion had suffered a grave shock almost at
the moment of its birth. She