“But why must we take the trouble to go all the way to Capri?  What sense is there in that?”

“Dearest Marchesa, you do not understand!  Consider the surroundings, the moonlight, the water rippling against the rocks, the soft breeze—­a little music, too, such as a pair of mandolins and a guitar, which we could send over—­all these things are in my favour.”

“Why?” asked the Marchesa, not understanding in the least how he could attach so much value to things which seemed to her unappreciative mind to be perfectly indifferent.

“Besides,” she added, “if you want to give a party, you can illuminate the garden of the hotel with Chinese lanterns.  That would be much prettier than to picnic on uncomfortable rocks out in the sea with nothing but cold things to eat and only the moon for an illumination.  I am sure Beatrice would like it much better.”

San Miniato laughed.

“What a prosaic person you are!” he exclaimed.  “Can you not imagine that a young girl’s disposition may be softened by moonlight, mandolins and night breezes?”

“No.  I never understood that.  And after all if you want moonlight you can have it here.  If it shines at Capri it will shine at Sorrento.  At least it seems to me so.”

“No, dearest Marchesa,” answered San Miniato triumphantly.  “There you are mistaken.”

“About the moon?”

“Yes, about the moon.  When it rises we do not see it here, on account of the mountains behind us.”

“But I have often seen the moon here, from this very place,” objected the Marchesa.  “I am sure it is not a week ago that I saw it.  You do not mean to tell me that there are two moons, and that yours is different from mine!”

“Very nearly.  This at least I say.  When the moon is full we can see it rise from Tragara, and we can not see it from this place.”

“How inexplicable nature is!” exclaimed the Marchesa fanning herself lazily.  “I will not try to understand the moon any more.  It tires me.  A lemonade, San Miniato—­ring for a lemonade.  I am utterly exhausted.”

“Shall I ask Donna Beatrice’s opinion about Tragara?” inquired San Miniato rising.

“Oh yes!  Anything—­only do not argue with me.  I cannot bear it.  I suppose you will put me into that terrible boat and make me sit in it for hours and hours, until all my bones are broken, and then you will give me cold macaroni and dry bread and warm wine and water, and the sailors will eat garlic, and it will be insufferable and you will call it divine.  And of course Beatrice will be so wretched that she will not listen to a word you say, and will certainly refuse you without hesitation.  A lemonade, San Miniato, for the love of heaven!  My throat is parched with this talking.”

When the Marchesa had got what she wanted, San Miniato sat down beside Beatrice at the piano, in the sitting room.

“Donna Beatrice gentilissima,” he began, “will you deign to tell me whether you prefer the moon to Chinese lanterns, or Chinese lanterns to the moon?”