Beatrice sat upon a smooth projection and San Miniato placed
himself at her feet, in such a position that he could look up into her
face and talk to her without raising his voice.
"So you are glad you came here, Donna Beatrice," he said.
"Very glad," she answered. "It is something I have never seen
before--something I shall never forget, as long as I live."
"Nor I."
"Have you a good memory?"
"For some things, not for others."
"For what, for instance?"
"For those I love---"
"And a bad memory for those whom you have loved," suggested Beatrice
with a smile.
"Have you any reason for saying that?" asked San Miniato gravely. "You
know too little of me and my life to judge of either. I have not loved
many, and I have remembered them well."
"How many? A dozen, more or less? Or twenty? Or a hundred?"
"Two. One is dead, and one has forgotten me."
Beatrice was silent. It was admirably done, and for the first time he
made her believe that he was in earnest. It had not been very hard for
him either, for there was a foundation of truth in what he said. He had
not always been a man without heart.
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