It was time for supper. Bastianello would be
waiting for him, and Ruggiero went home.
As the evening shadows fell, Beatrice was seated at the piano in the
sitting-room playing softly to herself such melancholy music as she
could remember, which was not much. It gave her relief, however, for she
could at least try and express something of what would not and could
not be put into words. She was not a musician, but she played fairly
well, and this evening there was something in the tones she drew from
the instrument which many a musician might have envied. She threw into
her touch all that she was suffering and it was a faint satisfaction to
her to listen to the lament of the sad notes as she struck them and they
rose and fell and died away.
The door opened and San Miniato entered. She heard his footstep and
recognised it, and immediately she struck a succession of loud chords
and broke into a racing waltz tune.
"You were playing something quite different, when I came to the door,"
he said, sitting down beside her.
"I thought you might prefer something gay," she answered without looking
at him and still playing on.
Pages:
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280