“But I am not in actual need of money at all—­”

“Then what the devil are you in need of?”

“An improvement in business, and the assurance that I shall not ultimately be bankrupt.”

“If money is not an assurance that you will not be bankrupt, I would like to learn what is.  All this is nonsense.  Tell me the truth, my boy—­you are in love.  That is the trouble.”

Orsino shrugged his shoulders.

“I have been in love some time,” he answered.

“Young?  Old?  Marriageable?  Married?  Out with it, I say!”

“I would rather talk about business.  I think it is all over now.”

“Just like your father—­always full of secrets!  As if I did not know all about it.  You are in love with that Madame d’Aranjuez.”

Orsino turned a little pale.

“Please do not call her ‘that’ Madame d’Aranjuez,” he said, gravely.

“Eh?  What?  Are you so sensitive about her?”

“Yes.”

“You are?  Very well—­I like that.  What about her?”

“What a question!”

“I mean—­is she indifferent, cold, in love with some one else?”

“Not that I am aware.  She has refused to marry me and has left Rome, that is all.”

“Refused to marry you!” cried old Saracinesca in boundless astonishment.  “My dear boy, you must be out of your mind!  The thing is impossible.  You are the best match in Rome.  Madame d’Aranjuez refuse you—­absolutely incredible, not to be believed for a moment.  You are dreaming.  A widow—­without much fortune—­the relict of some curious adventurer—­a woman looking for a fortune, a woman—­”

“Stop!” cried Orsino, savagely.

“Oh yes—­I forgot.  You are sensitive.  Well, well, I meant nothing against her, except that she must be insane if what you tell me is true.  But I am glad of it, my boy, very glad.  She is no match for you, Orsino.  I confess, I wish you would marry at once.  I would like to see my great grandchildren—­but not Madame d’Aranjuez.  A widow, too.”

“My father married a widow.”

“When you find a widow like your mother, and ten years younger than yourself, marry her if you can.  But not Madame d’Aranjuez—­older than you by several years.”

“A few years.”

“Is that all?  It is too much, though.  And who is Madame d’Aranjuez?  Everybody was asking the question last winter.  I suppose she had a name before she married, and since you have been trying to make her your wife, you must know all about her.  Who was she?”

Orsino hesitated.

“You see!” cried, the old Prince.  “It is not all right.  There is a secret—­there is something wrong about her family, or about her entrance into the world.  She knows perfectly well that we would never receive her and has concealed it all from you—­”

“She has not concealed it.  She has told me the exact truth.  But I shall not repeat it to you.”