er
felt, and it must be love, she thought. She had always liked him a
little better than the rest. But surely, this was more than mere
liking. She had a strange longing to hear him say the words, to start,
as her instinct told her she must, when he spoke them, to be told for
the first time that she was loved. Is it strange, after all? Young,
imaginative and full of life, she had been brought up to believe that
she was to be married to some man she scarcely knew, after a week's
acquaintance, without so much as having talked five minutes with him
alone; she had been taught that love was a legend and matrimony a matter
of interest. And yet here was the man whom her mother undoubtedly wished
her to marry, not only talking with her as they had often talked before,
with no one to hear what was said, but actually on the verge of telling
her that he loved her. Could anything be more delicious, more original,
more in harmony with the place and hour? And as if all this were not
enough, she really felt the touch and thrill of love in her own heart,
and the leaping wonder to know what was to come.

She had told him to speak and she waited for his voice. He, on his part,
knew that much was at stake, for he saw that she was moved, and that
all depended on his words. The fewer the better, he thought, if only
there could be a note of passion in them, if only one of them could ring
as all of poor Ruggiero's had rung when he had spoken that afternoon. He
hesitated and hesitation would be fatal if it lasted another five
seconds. He grew desperate. Where were the words and the tone that had
broken down the will of other women, far harder to please than this mere
child? He felt everything at once, except love. He saw her fortune
slipping from him at the very moment of getting it, he felt a little
contempt for the part he was playing and a sovereign scorn for his own
imbecility, he even anticipated the Marchesa's languid but cutting
comments on his failure. One second more, and all was lost--but not a
word would come. Then, in sheer despair and with a violence that
betrayed it, he seized one of Beatrice's hands in both of his and kissed
it madly a score of times. As she interpreted the action, no eloquence
of words could have told her more of what she wished to hear. It was
unexpected, it was passionate; if it had been premeditated, it would
have been a stroke of genius. As it was, it was a stroke of luck for
San Miniato. With the true gambl