t moved him nor the words he spoke? Beatrice
was a woman and, womanlike, she knew without proof or testimony that his
heart and hands were clean of the few sins which woman really despises
in man.

They are not many--be it said in honour of womanly generosity and
kindness--they are not many, those bad deeds which a woman cannot
forgive, and that she is right is truly shown in that those are the sins
which the most manly men despise in others. They are, I think,
cowardice, lying for selfish ends, betraying tales of woman's
weakness--almost the greatest of crimes--and, greatest of all,
faithlessness in love.

Let a man be brave, honest, discreet, faithful, and a woman will forgive
him all manner of evil actions, even to murder and bloodshed; but let
him flinch in danger, lie to save himself, tell the name of a woman
whose love for him has betrayed her, or break his faith to her without
boldly saying that he loves her no more, and she will not forgive him
while he lives, though she may give him a kindly thought and a few tears
when he is gone for ever.

So Beatrice, who could never love Ruggiero, understood him well and
judged him rightly, and set him up on a sort of pedestal as the
anti-type of his scheming master. And not only this. She felt deeply for
him and pitied him with all her heart, since she had seen his own almost
breaking before her eyes for her sake. She had always been kind to him,
but henceforth there would be something even kinder in her voice when
she spoke to him, as there would be something harder in her tone when
she talked with San Miniato.

And now her mother had appeared and settled herself in her lazy way upon
her long chair, and slowly moved her fan, from habit, though too
indolent to lift it to her face. Beatrice rose and kissed her lightly on
the forehead.

"Good morning, mamma carissima," she said. "Are you very tired after the
excursion?"

"Exhausted, in mind and body, my angel. A cigarette, my dear--it will
give me an appetite."

Beatrice brought her one, and held a match for her mother. Then the
Marchesa shut her eyes, inhaled the smoke and blew out four or five
puffs before speaking again.

"I want to speak to you, my child," she said at last, "but I hardly have
the strength."

"Do not tire yourself, mamma. I know what you are going to say, and I
have made up my mind."

"Have you? That will save me infinite trouble. I am so glad."

"Are you really? Do you know what I mean?"