While she was
still hesitating, San Miniato arrived.
There was something peculiarly irritating to her in his appearance on
that morning. He was arrayed in perfectly new clothes of light gray,
which fitted him admirably. He wore shoes of untanned leather which
seemed to be perfectly new also, and reflected the light as though they
were waxed. His stiff collar was like porcelain, the single pearl he
wore in his white scarf was so perfect that it might have been false.
His light hair and moustache were very smoothly brushed and combed and
his face was exasperatingly sleek. There was a look of conscious
security about him, of overwhelming correctness and good taste, of pride
in himself and in his success, which Beatrice felt to be almost more
than she could bear with equanimity. He bent gracefully over the
Marchesa's hand and bowed low to the young girl, not supposing that hers
would be offered to him. In this he was mistaken, however, for she gave
him the ends of her fingers.
"Good morning," she said gently.
The Marchesa looked at her, for she had not expected that she would
speak first and certainly not in so gentle a tone.
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