"

"I see it well enough! To give myself up body and soul to a man I do not
love! And for what? Because he has an old name, and I a new one, and I
can buy his name with my money. Oh, mother, it is too horrible! Too low!
Too vile!"

"My angel, you do not know what strong words you are using--"

"They are not half strong enough--I wish I could--"

But she stopped and began to walk up and down again, her sweet young
face pale and weary with pain, her fingers twisting each other
nervously. A long silence followed.

"It is of no use to talk about it, my child," said the Marchesa,
languidly taking up a novel from the table beside her. "The thing is
done. You are engaged, and you must either marry San Miniato or take the
consequences and be pointed at as a faithless girl for the rest of your
life."

"And who knows of this engagement, if it is one, but you and I and he?"
asked Beatrice, standing still. "Would you tell, or I? Or would he
dare?"

"He would be perfectly justified," answered the Marchesa. "He is a
gentleman, however, and would be considerate. But who is to assure us
that he has not already telegraphed the good news to his friends?"

"It is too awful!" cried Beatrice, leaning back against one of the
pillars.

"Besides," said her mother without changing her tone. "You have changed
to-day, you may change again to-morrow--"

"Stop, for heaven's sake! Do not make me worse than I am!"

Poor Beatrice stopped her ears with her open hands. The Marchesa looked
at her and smiled a little, and shook her head, waiting for the hands to
be removed. At last the young girl began her walk again.

"You should not talk about being worse when you are not bad at all, my
dear," said her mother. "You have done nothing to be ashamed of, and all
this is perfectly absurd. You feel a passing dislike for the idea
perhaps, but that will be gone to-morrow. Meanwhile the one thing which
is really sure is that you are engaged to San Miniato, who, as I say,
has undoubtedly telegraphed the fact to his sister in Florence and
probably to two or three old friends. By to-morrow it will be in the
newspapers. You cannot possibly draw back. I have really talked enough.
I am utterly exhausted."

Beatrice sank into a chair and pressed her fingers upon her eyes, not to
hide them, but by sheer pressure forcing back the tears she felt coming.
Her beautiful young figure bent and trembled like a willow in the wind,
and the soft white throat swell