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.