“Of course.  Fancy what life was in the days of stiff wooden seats, when you had to carry a cushion about with you.  You know that sort of thing—­twelfth century, Francesca da Rimini and all that.”

“Poor Francesca!”

If she does not say “Poor Francesca!” as she probably will, you can say it yourself, very feelingly and in a different tone, after a short pause.  The one kiss which cost two lives makes the story particularly useful.  And then the ice is broken.  If Paolo and Francesca had not been murdered, would they have loved each other for ever?  As nobody knows what they would have done, you can assert that they would have been faithful or not, according to your taste, humour or personal intentions.  Then you can talk about the husband, whose very hasty conduct contributed so materially to the shortness of the story.  If you wish to be thought jealous, you say he was quite right; if you desire to seem generous, you say with equal conviction that he was quite wrong.  And so forth.  Get to generalities as soon as possible in order to apply them to your own case.

Orsino and Maria Consuelo were the guileless victims of furniture, neither of them being acquainted with the method just set forth for the instruction of the innocent.  They fell into their own trap and wondered how they had got from mantelpieces to hearts in such an incredibly short time.

“It is quite possible to love twice,” Orsino was saying.

“That depends upon what you mean by love,” answered Maria Consuelo, watching him with half-closed eyes.

Orsino laughed.

“What I mean by love?  I suppose I mean very much what other people mean by it—­or a little more,” he added, and the slight change in his voice pleased her.

“Do you think that any two understand the same thing when they speak of love?” she asked.

“We two might,” he answered, resuming his indifferent tone.  “After all, we have talked so much together during the last month that we ought to understand each other.”

“Yes,” said Maria Consuelo.  “And I think we do,” she added thoughtfully.

“Then why should we think differently about the same thing?  But I am not going to try and define love.  It is not easily defined, and I am not clever enough.”  He laughed again.  “There are many illnesses which I cannot define—­but I know that one may have them twice.”

“There are others which one can only have once—­dangerous ones, too.”

“I know it.  But that has nothing to do with the argument.”

“I think it has—­if this is an argument at all.”

“No.  Love is not enough like an illness—­it is quite the contrary.  It is a recovery from an unnatural state—­that of not loving.  One may fall into that state and recover from it more than once.”

“What a sophism!”

“Why do you say that?  Do you think that not to love is the normal condition of mankind?”