ng I shall never forget, as long as I live."

"Nor I."

"Have you a good memory?"

"For some things, not for others."

"For what, for instance?"

"For those I love---"

"And a bad memory for those whom you have loved," suggested Beatrice
with a smile.

"Have you any reason for saying that?" asked San Miniato gravely. "You
know too little of me and my life to judge of either. I have not loved
many, and I have remembered them well."

"How many? A dozen, more or less? Or twenty? Or a hundred?"

"Two. One is dead, and one has forgotten me."

Beatrice was silent. It was admirably done, and for the first time he
made her believe that he was in earnest. It had not been very hard for
him either, for there was a foundation of truth in what he said. He had
not always been a man without heart.

"It is much to have loved twice," said the young girl at last, in a
dreamy voice. She was thinking of what had passed through her mind that
afternoon.

"It is much--but not enough. What has never been lived out, is never
enough."

"Perhaps--but who could love three times?"

"Any man--and the third might be the best and the strongest, as well as
the last."

"To me it seems impossible."

San Miniato had got his chance and he knew it. He was nervous and not
sure of himself, for he knew very well that she had but a passing
attraction for him, beyond the very solid inducement to marry her
offered by her fortune. But he knew that the opportunity must not be
lost, and he did not waste time. He spoke quietly, not wishing to risk a
dramatic effect until he could count on his own rather slight histrionic
powers.

"So it seems impossible to you, Donna Beatrice," he said, in a musing
tone. "Well, I daresay it does. Many things must seem impossible to you
which are rather startling facts to me. I am older than you, I am a man,
and I have been a soldier. I have lived a life such as you cannot dream
of--not worse perhaps than that of many another man, but certainly not
better. And I am quite sure that if I gave you my history you would not
understand four-fifths of it, and the other fifth would shock you. Of
course it would--how could it be otherwise? How could you and I look at
anything from quite the same point of view?"

"And yet we often agree," said Beatrice, thoughtfully.

"Yes, we do. That is quite true. And that is because a certain sympathy
exists between us. I feel that very much when I am with you, and that is
one rea