Gianluca said nothing to him, but by a glance he reminded his friend of his former attempt.  So they came to no conclusion, though it was clear that Veronica now liked Gianluca quite enough, in their opinion, to marry him at once.  But he himself, remembering his discomfiture, knew that the time had not yet come, though he had hopes that it might not be far off.  On that very day he went to Bianca’s villa, and stayed an unreasonably long time, in the hope that Ghisleri might appear, for he found Bianca and Veronica alone.  Pietro would have talked with Bianca, and he himself would have had a chance, perhaps, to judge of his actual position.  He was no longer shy and awkward, now, when he was with the young girl.  But Ghisleri did not come, and Gianluca went home, disappointed and disconsolate.

“I suppose that if we were in Sicily,” he said to Taquisara on the following morning, “you would propose to carry her off by force.  You once advised me to do something of the sort.”

“That is a proceeding which needs the consent of the lady,” answered the Sicilian.  “The ‘force’ is employed against the relations.  Now Donna Veronica has none to speak of so far as I can see.  It is a case for persuasion.”

Gianluca sighed.  Matters were at a deadlock, and Veronica had announced her intention of going to Muro alone, before long.  Once established there, she might stay in the mountains until the following autumn, unapproachable in her maiden solitude, as she had told Taquisara.  Gianluca might knock at her gate, there, but he would certainly not be admitted.

“You despise me,” he said to his friend.  “You think me weak and helpless, and you fancy that if you were in my place you could do better.  But I do not believe you could.”

“No,” replied the other.  “I do not believe so, either.  And I do not at all despise you.  You have only one chance—­to make her love you.  No man is to be despised because a woman does not love him.  It is not his fault.”

“I feel as though it were,” said Gianluca.  “I am sure that if I could change, if I could make myself different in some way—­but that is absurd, of course.”

“One cannot suddenly become some one else.”  For himself, without vanity, Taquisara was probably glad of the fact, but he was sincerely sorry for his friend.  “You might write to her,” he suggested.

“Love-letters—­to Donna Veronica?” Gianluca smiled incredulously.  “You do not know her!”

“I know her a little,” replied Taquisara.  “All women like to receive letters from men who love them, if they are well expressed and sincere.”

“How horribly practical you are sometimes!” exclaimed the younger man, unaccountably irritated at his friend’s generalizations.

Taquisara laughed and knocked the ashes from his long black cigar.