“Unless I had asked your advice,” suggested Gianluca.

“And if you had, you would not have acted upon it—­any more than you will write to Donna Veronica now, though I tell you that all women like to receive love-letters.  It is natural.  A woman is not satisfied with being told once a week that she is loved.  She likes to know it all the time—­the oftener, the better.  Two letters of one page are better than one of two pages.  Twenty notes a day, of a line or two each, will make a woman perfectly happy—­provided that you do not make a mistake and send one less on the day following.  They like repetition, provided it is in the same pitch.  If you have begun high, you must not let the strings slacken.  Women are curious creatures.  In religion, they can believe fifty times as much as any man.  In love, they only believe while they see you and hear you.  As soon as your back is turned—­even if they have sent you away—­they scream and cry out that you have abandoned them.  Before you come, they want you.  When you are there, you weary them.  When you are gone, you have betrayed them.  And they wonder that a man cannot bear that sort of thing forever!  Do you call me practical for speaking in this way?  Very well, then—­I am practical.  I tell you what I know.”

Gianluca was amused, but he thought over what Taquisara had advised him to do, and the more he thought about it, the more inclined he was to follow the advice.  Not that he regarded the writing of letters to Veronica at all as a hopeful means of moving her; but he felt that he might write her much which he would not say.  He loved her with the deepest sincerity, and with an almost morbid passion, and the idea of approaching her in any way was irresistible.  He had not realized before now that he could at least try the experiment of writing.  She knew that he loved her, and at the worst, she might tell him not to write again.  He remembered his terrible awkwardness and hesitation when he had first told her of his love, and his humiliation afterwards, when he had reflected upon the poor figure he had made.  There would be no humiliation, now.  He was sure of that.  He could rely upon his pen and his wits, though he could not trust to his wits with only his tongue to help them.

The chief objection to this method of wooing was that, in his class, it was untraditional.  And this had some weight with him, for he had been brought up rigidly in the practices and customs of an exclusive caste.  On the other hand, he had never thought of plunging rashly into love-phrases, from the first.  He wished to establish a correspondence with Veronica, and then by subtle tact and delicate degrees to acquire the right of speaking to her, by his letters, of what he felt, making no reference to them when he met her, until she should at last give some sign that she would listen favourably.

The plan was wise and far sighted, but it had not been the result of wisdom nor of diplomatic instinct.  He adopted it out of delicacy, and out of respect for the woman he loved, and in the hope of reaching her heart without ever jarring upon her sensibilities.