“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 swelled with the choking sob she kept down so bravely.  There is something half divine in the grief of some women.

“Dear child,” said her mother very gently, “there is nothing to cry over.  Beatrice carissima, try and control yourself.  It will soon pass—­”

“It will soon pass—­yes,” answered the young girl, bringing out the words with a great effort.  During fully two minutes more she pressed her eyes with all her might.  Then she rose suddenly to her feet, and her face was almost calm again.