“San Miniato says that love is for the young and friendship for the old.”

“Love,” said San Miniato, “is a necessary evil, but it is also the greatest source of happiness.”

“What a fine phrase!” exclaimed Beatrice.  “You must be a professor in disguise.”

“A professor of love?” asked the Count with a very well executed look of tenderness which did not escape Ruggiero.

“Hush, for the love of heaven!” interposed the Marchesa.  “This is too dreadful!”

“We were not talking of the love of heaven,” answered Beatrice mischievously.

“I was thinking at least of a love that could make any place a heaven,” said San Miniato, again helping his lack of originality with his eyes.

Ruggiero reflected that it would be but the affair of a second to unship the heavy brass tiller and bring it down once on the top of his master’s skull.  Once would be enough.

“Whose love?” asked Beatrice innocently.

San Miniato looked at her again, then turned away his eyes and sighed audibly.

“Well?” asked Beatrice.  “Will you answer.  I do not understand that language.  Whose love would make any place—­Timbuctoo, for instance—­a heaven for you?”

“Discretion is the only virtue a man ought to exhibit whenever he has a chance,” said San Miniato.

“Perhaps.  But even that should be shown without ostentation.”  Beatrice laughed.  “And you are decidedly ostentatious at the present moment.  It would interest mamma and me very much to know the object of your affections.”

“Beatrice!” exclaimed the Marchesa with affected horror.

“Yes, mamma,” answered the young girl.  “Here I am.  Do you want some more lemonade?”

“She is quite insufferable,” said the Marchesa to San Miniato, with a languid smile.  “But really, San Miniato carissimo, this conversation—­a young girl—–­”

Ruggiero wondered what she found so obnoxious in the words that had been spoken.  He also wondered how long it would take San Miniato to drown if he were dropped overboard in the wake of the boat.

“If that is your opinion of your daughter,” said the latter, “we shall hardly agree.  Now I maintain that Donna Beatrice is the contrary of insufferable—­the most extreme of contraries.  In the first place—–­”

“She is very pretty,” said Beatrice demurely.

“I was not going to say that,” laughed San Miniato.

“Ah?  Then say something else.”

“I will.  Donna Beatrice has two gifts, at least, which make it impossible that she should ever be insufferable, even when her beauty is gone.”

“Dio mio!” ejaculated the young girl.  “The compliments are beginning in good earnest!”

“It was time,” said San Miniato, “since your mother—–­”

“Dear Count,” interrupted Beatrice, “do not talk any more about mamma.  I am anxious to get at the compliments.  Do pray let your indiscretion be as ostentatious as possible.  I cannot wait another second.”