“It is the simplest way—­one is never disappointed.”

“It is a pity one cannot swallow people in the same way,” said Flavia with a laugh.

“Most people do,” answered Spicca viciously.

“Were you at the Jubilee on the first day?” asked Giovanni, addressing Flavia.

“Of course I was—­and you spoke to me.”

“That is true.  By the bye, I saw that excellent Donna Tullia there.  I wonder whose ticket she had.”

“She had the Princess Befana’s,” answered Spicca, who knew everything.  “The old lady happened to be dying—­she always dies at the beginning of the season—­it used to be for economy, but it has become a habit—­and so Del Ferice bought her card of her servant for his wife.”

“Who was the lady who sat with her?” asked Giovanni, delighted with his own skill.

“You ought to know!” exclaimed Flavia.  “We all saw Orsino take her out.  That is the famous, the incomparable Madame d’Aranjuez—­the most beautiful of Spanish princesses according to to-day’s paper.  I daresay you have seen the account of the Del Ferice party.  She is no more Spanish than Alexander the Great.  Is she, Spicca?”

“No, she is not Spanish,” answered the latter.

“Then what in the world is she?” asked Giovanni impatiently.

“How should I know?  Of course it is very disagreeable for you.”  It was Flavia who spoke.

“Disagreeable?  How?”

“Why, about Orsino of course.  Everybody says he is devoted to her.”

“I wish everybody would mind his and her business,” said Giovanni sharply.  “Because a boy makes the acquaintance of a stranger at a studio—­”

“Oh—­it was at a studio?  I did not know that.”

“Yes, at Gouache’s—­I fancied your sister might have told you that,” said Giovanni, growing more and more irritable, and yet not daring to change the subject, lest he should lose some valuable information.  “Because Orsino makes her acquaintance accidentally, every one must say that he is in love with her.”

Flavia laughed.

“My dear Giovanni,” she answered.  “Let us be frank.  I used never to tell the truth under any circumstances, when I was a girl, but Giovanni—­my Giovanni—­did not like that.  Do you know what he did?  He used to cut off a hundred francs of my allowance for every fib I told—­laughing at me all the time.  At the end of the first quarter I positively had not a pair of shoes, and all my gloves had been cleaned twice.  He used to keep all the fines in a special pocket-book—­if you knew how hard I tried to steal it!  But I could not.  Then, of course, I reformed.  There was nothing else to be done—­that or rags—­fancy!  And do you know?  I have grown quite used to being truthful.  Besides, it is so original, that I pose with it.”

Flavia paused, laughed a little, and puffed at her cigarette.

“You do not often come to see me, Giovanni,” she said, “and since you are here I am going to tell you the truth about your visit.  You are beside yourself with rage at Orsino’s new fancy, and you want to find out all about this Madame d’Aranjuez.  So you came here, because we are Whites and you saw that she had been at the Del Ferice party, and you know that we know them—­and the rest is sung by the organ, as we say when high mass is over.  Is that the truth, or not?”