s wretched little comedy.

It all rushed across her mind again, bringing a new sense of disgust and
repulsion with it, and a new blush of shame and anger at having been so
deceived. There was no doubt now. The contrast had been too great, too
wide, too evident. It was the difference between truth and hearsay, as
San Miniato had said once that night. There was no mistaking the one for
the other.

Poor Ruggiero! that was why he was growing pale and thin. That was why
his arm trembled when he helped her into the boat. She leaned against
the rock and wondered what it all meant, whether there were really any
justice in heaven or any happiness on earth. But she would not marry
San Miniato, now, for she had given no promise. If she had done so, she
would not have broken it--in that, at least, she was like other girls of
her age and class. Next to evils of which she knew nothing, the breaking
of a promise of marriage was the greatest and most unpardonable of sins,
no matter what the circumstances might be. But she was sure that she had
not promised anything.

At that moment in her meditations she heard the tread of a man's heel on
the rocks. The sailors were all barefoot, and she knew it must be San
Miniato. Unwilling to be alone with him even for a minute, she sprang
lightly forward to meet him as he came. He held out his hand to help
her, but she refused it by a gesture and hurried on.

"I have been speaking with your mother," he said, trying to take
advantage of the thirty or forty yards that still remained to be
traversed.

"So I suppose, as I left you together," she answered in a hard voice. "I
have been talking to Ruggiero."

"Has anything displeased you, Beatrice?" asked San Miniato, surprised by
her manner.

"No. Why do you call me Beatrice?" Her tone was colder than ever.

"I suppose I might be permitted--"

"You are not."

San Miniato looked at her in amazement, but they were already within
earshot of the Marchesa, who had not moved from her long chair, and he
did not risk anything more, not knowing what sort of answer he might
get. But he was no novice, and as soon as he thought over the situation
he remembered others similar to it in his experience, and he understood
well enough that a sensitive young girl might feel ashamed of having
shown too much feeling, or might have taken offence at some detail in
his conduct which had entirely escaped his own notice. Young and
vivacious women are peculiarly subje