She remembered every word San Miniato
had spoken, far better than he would remember it himself in a day or
two, and she was ready to analyse and criticise now what had charmed and
pleased her a moment earlier. Why was he going over it all to her
mother, like a lesson learnt and repeated? She was so glad to be
alone--she would have been so glad to think alone of what she had taken
for the most delicious moment of her young life. If he were really in
earnest, he would feel as she did and would have said at once that it
was late and time to be going home--he would have invented any excuse to
escape the interview which her mother would try to force upon him. Could
it be love that he felt? And if not, as her heart told her it was not,
what was his object in playing such a comedy? She knew well enough, from
Teresina, that many a young Neapolitan nobleman would have given his
title for her fortune, but Teresina, perhaps for reasons of her own,
never dared to cast such an aspersion upon San Miniato, even in the
intimate conversation which sometimes takes place between an Italian
lady and her maid--and, indeed, if the truth be told, between maids and
their mistresses in most parts of the world.
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