"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."
So San Miniato went out and left the mother and daughter together again
as he had found them. It is needless to say that the Piedmontese friend
was a fiction, and that San Miniato had no engagement of that kind. He
had hastily resolved to keep one of a different nature because he
guessed that in Beatrice's present temper he would make matters more
difficult by staying. And in this he was right, for Beatrice had made up
her mind to be thoroughly disagreeable and she possessed the elements of
success requisite for that purpose--a sharp tongue, a quick instinct and
great presence of mind.
San Miniato descended the stairs and strolled out into the orange
garden, looking at his watch as he left the door of the hotel. It was
very hot, but further away from the house the sea breeze was blowing
through the trees. He was still smoking the cigarette he had lighted
upstairs, and he sat down on a bench in the shade, took out a pocket
book and began to make notes.
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