A young girl who refuses to keep her engagement is called a civetta--an owlet--probably because owlets are used as a decoy all over the country in snaring and shooting all small birds.

Be that as it may, the term is a bitter reproach, it sticks to her who has earned it and often ruins her whole life.

That is what the Marchesa meant when she told Beatrice that she knew what the world would call her, and the threat had weight.
The young girl rose from her seat and began to walk to and fro on the terrace, her head bent, her hands clasped together.

The Marchesa slowly puffed at her cigarette and watched her daughter with half-closed eyes.
"I never meant it so!" Beatrice exclaimed in low tones, and she repeated the words again and again, pausing now and then and looking fixedly at her mother.
"Dear child," said the Marchesa, "what does it matter?
If it were not such an exertion to talk, I am sure I could make you see what a good match it is, and how glad you ought to be." "Glad! Oh, mamma, you do not understand! The degradation of it!" "The degradation?
Where is there anything degrading in it ?" "I see it well enough! To give myself up body and soul to a man I do not love! And for what?
Because he has an old name, and I a new one, and I can buy his name with my money.

Oh, mother, it is too horrible! Too low! Too vile!" "My angel, you do not know what strong words you are using--" "They are not half strong enough--I wish I could--" But she stopped and began to walk up and down again, her sweet young face pale and weary with pain, her fingers twisting each other nervously.