Again the mother and daughter were together in the cool shade of their terrace.

Outside, it was very hot, for the morning breeze did not yet stir the brown linen curtains which kept out the glare of the sea, and myriads of locusts were fiddling their eternal two notes without pause or change of pitch, in every garden from Massa to Scutari point, which latter is the great bluff from which they quarry limestone for road making, and which shuts off the amphitheatre of Sorrento from the view of Castellamare to eastward.

The air was dry, hot and full of life and sound, as it is in the far south in summer.
"And when do you propose to marry me ?" asked Beatrice in a discontented tone.
"Dearest child," answered her mother, "you speak as though I were marrying you by force to a man whom you detest." "That is exactly what you are doing." The Marchesa raised her eyebrows, fanned herself lazily and smiled.
"Are we to begin the old argument every morning, my dear ?" she asked.
"It always ends in the same way, and you always say the same dreadful things to me.

I really cannot bear it much longer.

You know very well that you bound yourself, and that you were quite free to tell San Miniato that you did not care for him.