And now her mother had appeared and settled herself in her lazy way upon her long chair, and slowly moved her fan, from habit, though too indolent to lift it to her face. Beatrice rose and kissed her lightly on the forehead.
"Good morning, mamma carissima," she said. "Are you very tired after the excursion?"
"Exhausted, in mind and body, my angel. A cigarette, my dear—it will give me an appetite."
Beatrice brought her one, and held a match for her mother. Then the Marchesa shut her eyes, inhaled the smoke and blew out four or five puffs before speaking again.
"I want to speak to you, my child," she said at last, "but I hardly have the strength."
"Do not tire yourself, mamma. I know what you are going to say, and I have made up my mind."
"Have you? That will save me infinite trouble. I am so glad."
"Are you really? Do you know what I mean?"
"Of course. You are going to marry San Miniato, and we have the best excuse in the world for going to Paris to see about your trousseau."
"I will not marry San Miniato," said Beatrice. "I have made up my mind that I will not."