"How you talk, my angel! Of course if you had no fortune, or much less than you have, he could not think of marrying you. That is clear. I never pretended the contrary. But that does not contradict the fact that he loves you to distraction, if that is what you want."
"To distraction!" repeated Beatrice with scorn.
"Why not, dearest child? Do you think a man cannot love because he is poor?"
"That is not the question, mamma!" cried Beatrice impatiently. "You know it is not. But no woman can be deceived twice by the same comedy, and few would be deceived once. You know as well as I that it was all a play the other night, that he was trying to find words, as he was trying to find sentiments, and that when the words would not be found he thought it would be efficacious to seize my hand and kiss it. I daresay he thought I believed him—of course he did. But not for long—oh! not for long. Real love finds even fewer words, but it finds them better, and the ring of them is truer, and one remembers them longer!"
"Beatrice!" exclaimed the Marchesa. "What can you know of such things!
You talk as though some man had dared to speak to you—"
"Do I?" asked the girl with sudden coldness, and a strange look came into her eyes, which her mother did not see.
"Yes, you do. And yet I know that it is impossible. Besides the whole discussion is useless and wears me out, though it seems to interest you. Of course you will marry San Miniato. When you have got past this absurd humour you will see what a good husband you have got, and you will be very happy."
"Happy! With that man!" Beatrice's lip curled.
"You will," answered her mother, taking no notice. "Happiness depends upon two things in this world, when marriage is concerned. Money and a good disposition. You have both, between you, and you will be happy."
"I never heard anything more despicable!" cried the young girl. "Money and disposition! And what becomes of the heart?"