nt mood and that he would not attach more
importance to it than it deserved. They talked a little longer together,
both for the present avoiding any reference to the important
arrangements which must soon be discussed in connection with the
marriage contract, but both taking it entirely for granted that the
marriage itself was quite agreed upon and settled.

Then Beatrice returned and sat down silently by the table.

"Have you been for a little walk, my angel?" enquired her mother.

"Yes, mamma, I have been for a little walk."

"You are not tired then, after our excursion, Donna Beatrice?" enquired
San Miniato.

"Not in the least," answered the young girl, taking up a book and
beginning to read.

"Beatrice!" exclaimed her mother in amazement. "My child! What are you
reading! Maupassant! Have you quite forgotten yourself?"

"I am trying to, mamma. And since I am to be married--what difference
does it make?"

She spoke without laying down the volume. San Miniato pretended to pay
no attention to the incident, and slowly rolled a fat cigarette between
his fingers to soften it before smoking. The Marchesa made gestures to
Beatrice with an unusual expenditure of energy, but with no effect.

"It seems very interesting," said the latter. "I had no idea he wrote so
well. It seems to be quite different from Telemaque--more amusing in
every way."

Then the Marchesa did what she had not done in many years. She asserted
her parental authority. Very lazily she put her feet to the ground, laid
her fan, her handkerchief and her cigarette case together, and rose to
her feet. Coming round the table she took the forbidden book out of
Beatrice's hands, shut it up and put it back in its place. Beatrice made
no opposition, but raised her broad eyebrows wearily and folded her
hands in her lap.

"Of course, if you insist, I have nothing to say," she remarked, "any
more than I have anything to do since you will not let me read."

The Marchesa went back to her lounge and carefully arranged her
belongings and settled herself comfortably before she spoke.

"I think you are a little out of temper, Beatrice dear, or perhaps you
are hungry, my child. You so often are. San Miniato, what time is it?"

"A quarter before twelve," answered the Count.

"Of course you will breakfast with us. Ring the bell, dearest friend. We
will not wait any longer."

San Miniato rose and touched the button.

"You are as hospitable as you are good," he