The theatre was only a big
puppet show, and he could pay for a seat there if he pleased; but he did
not please, because he was sure that it would not amuse him to go. Why
should Beatrice like the theatre? And she liked the races at Naples,
too, and those at Paris much better. Why? Everybody knew that one horse
could run faster than another, without trying it, but it could not
matter a straw which of two, or twenty, got to the goal first. Horses
were not boats. Now there was sense in a boat race, or a yacht race, or
a steamer race. But a horse! He might be first to-day, and to-morrow if
he had not enough to eat he might be last. Was a horse a Christian? You
could not count upon him. And then they began to talk of love and
Ruggiero's heart stood still, for that, at least, he could understand.
"Love!" laughed Beatrice, repeating the word. "It always makes one
laugh. Were you ever in love, mamma?"
The Marchesa turned her head slowly, and lifted her sleepy eyes to look
at her daughter, before she answered.
"No," she said lazily. "I was never in love. But you are far too young
to talk of such things."
"San Miniato says that love is for the young and friendship for the
old.
Pages:
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110