When San Miniato had finished, the Marchesa was silent for a few seconds. Then she tapped her companion twice upon the arm with her fan, in a way which would have seemed lazy in any one else, but which, for her, was unusually energetic.
"How well you say it all!" she exclaimed.
"And you consent, dear Marchesa?" asked the Count, with an eagerness not all feigned.
"You say it all so well! If I could say it half so well to Beatrice—there might be some possibility. But Beatrice is not like me—nor I like you—and so—"
She broke off in the middle of the sentence with an indolent little laugh.
"If she were like you," said San Miniato, "I would not hesitate long."
There was an intonation in his voice that pleased the middle-aged woman, as he had intended.
"What would you do?" she asked, fanning herself slowly in the dark.
"I would speak to her myself."
"Heavens!" Again the Marchesa laughed. The idea seemed eccentric enough in her eyes.