The Marchesa went back to her lounge and carefully arranged her belongings and settled herself comfortably before she spoke.
"I think you are a little out of temper, Beatrice dear, or perhaps you are hungry, my child. You so often are. San Miniato, what time is it?"
"A quarter before twelve," answered the Count.
"Of course you will breakfast with us. Ring the bell, dearest friend. We will not wait any longer."
San Miniato rose and touched the button.
"You are as hospitable as you are good," he said. "But if you will forgive me, I will not accept your invitation to-day. An old friend of mine is at the other hotel for a few hours and I have promised to breakfast with him. Will you excuse me?"
Beatrice made an almost imperceptible gesture of indifference with her hand.
"Who is your friend?" she asked.
"A Piedmontese," answered San Miniato indifferently. "You do not know him."
"We are very sorry to lose you, especially to-day, San Miniato carissimo," said the Marchesa. "But if it cannot be helped—well, good-bye."