It was very pretty, and the attempt to give pleasure deserved, perhaps, more credit than it received.
"It is charming, dearest friend!" was all the Marchesa vouchsafed to say, when the performers paused.
Beatrice sat stony and unmoved, and spoke no word.

She said to herself that San Miniato was again attempting to prepare the scenery for a comedy, and she could have laughed to think that he should still delude himself so completely.

Teresina would have clapped her hands in applause had she dared, but she did not, and contented herself with trying to see into Bastianello's eyes.

She was very near him as she sat furthest forward in the stern-sheets and he pulled the starboard stroke oar, leaning forward upon the loom, as the gust filled the sails and the boat needed no pulling.
"You do not care for the mandolin, Donna Beatrice ?" said San Miniato, with a sort of disappointed interrogation in his voice.
"Have I said that I do not care for it ?" asked the young girl indifferently.

"You take too much for granted." Grim and silent on the stern sat Ruggiero, the tiller in his hand, his eye on the dark water to landward constantly on the look-out for the gusts that came down so quickly and which could deal treacherously with a light craft like the one he was steering.