The latter talked carelessly and agreeably at first, but insensibly led the conversation to the subject of money in general and at last to the question of Beatrice’s marriage settlement in particular.  He was very tactful and would probably have reached this desired point in the conversation in spite of the Marchesa, had she avoided it.  But she was in the humour to discuss the matter and let him draw her on without opposition.  She had thought it all over and had determined what she should do.  San Miniato was surprised, and not altogether agreeably, by her extreme clearness of perception when they actually arrived at the main discussion.

“You are aware, San Miniato mio,” she was saying, “that my poor husband was a very rich man, and you are of course familiar—­you who know everything—­with the laws of inheritance in our country.  As our dear Beatrice is an only child, the matter would have been simple, even if he had not made a will.  I should have had my widow’s portion and she would have had all the rest, as she ultimately will.”

“Of course, dearest Marchesa.  I understood that.  But it is most kind of you to tell me about the details.  In Beatrice’s interest—­and her interests will of course be my first concern in life—­”

“Of course, carissimo,” said the Marchesa, interrupting him.  “Can I doubt it?  Should I have chosen you out of so many to be my son-in-law if I had not understood from the first all the nobility and uprightness of your fine character?”

“How good you are to me!” exclaimed San Miniato, who mistrusted the preamble, but was careful not to show it.

“Not at all, dear friend!  I am never good.  It is such horrible trouble to be either good or bad, as you would know if you had my nerves.  But we were speaking of my poor husband’s will.  One half of his fortune of course he was obliged to leave to his daughter.  He could dispose of the other half as he pleased.  I believe it was that admirable man, the first Napoleon, who invented that just law, was it not?  Yes, I was sure.  My husband left the other half to me, provided I should not marry—­he was a very thoughtful man!  But if I did, the money was to go to Beatrice at once.  If I did not, however, I was—­as I really am—­quite free to dispose of it as I pleased.”

“How very just!” exclaimed San Miniato.

“Do you think so?  Yes.  But further, I wish to tell you that he set aside a sum out of what he left Beatrice, to be her dowry—­just a trifle, you know, to be paid to her husband on the marriage, as is customary.  But all the remainder, compared with which the dowry itself is insignificant, does not pass into her hands until she is of age, and of course remains entirely in her control.”

“I understand,” said San Miniato in a tone which betrayed some nervousness in spite of his best efforts to be calm, for he had assuredly not understood before.

“Of course you understand, dearest friend,” answered the Marchesa.  “You are so clever and you have such a good head for affairs, which I never had.  I assure you I never could understand anything about money.  It is all so mysterious and complicated!  Give me one of your cigarettes, I am quite exhausted with talking.”