“Nina.”

“Nina!  Really a charming name, that!  One that can be said without breaking consonants against the teeth.  There was a girl once, very pretty, but she was called—­I can never pronounce it—­E-d-i-t-h—­those are the letters.  But Ni-na!  It has a delicious sound.”  He let it slip over his tongue.  Then he put his head on one side and asked quizzically, “How much has she?”

Sansevero looked up quickly; he hesitated a moment, then answered stiffly:  “She has a great fortune, but she is also my niece.”

Giovanni raised his eyebrows, and then burst into shouts of laughter.

“What has come over you?  It was you who suggested the match!  You know as well as I that my debts don’t disturb me in the least.  It is quite easy always to—­borrow, if one must pay.”

CHAPTER VI

LOVE, AND A GARDEN

Don Giovanni arrived on Tuesday, and Saturday found him out on the terrace leaning over the balustrade beside Nina.  His expression was unusually animated, for he was making the most of his first chance to talk to her without the presence of a third person.  Not that they were alone—­the Princess Sansevero was too much of an Italian to leave a young girl for a moment unchaperoned.  But she was walking about with the head gardener, discussing the possibilities of saving a grove of cypress trees that showed signs of dying; and though she kept the young people well in sight, she could not overhear their conversation.  Giovanni’s big dog, St. Anthony, was lying outstretched in the sunshine.

In the full light, Nina had ample opportunity for observing that her companion was quite as good-looking in detail as in general effect; and the rhythmic inflection of his voice—­he spoke in French—­she thought truly attuned to his surroundings.  He was one of those who, like Italy itself, give to strangers only the suggestion of their meaning, and he interested Nina chiefly as a new unsolved problem.

Gradually the habitual sleepy expression had returned to his eyes, and his voice grew dreamy.  “We of Italy,” he was saying, “live, endure, die, if need be—­always for the same reason—­woman and love!  Your men in America”—­his teeth glittered as he smiled—­“tell me, Mademoiselle, do you believe they know what it is to love?  Do they hide it, perhaps, from us Europeans?”

“I should think,” answered Nina sagely, “that love means more to our men than to you.” (A remark that John Derby had made came into her mind as she spoke:  “You will find your own countrymen go in for the real thing, where the foreigner spends all his time talking about it.”)

Don Giovanni was too thoroughly a European to become argumentative.  “You see, I speak only from hearsay,” he continued, with that air of agreeing with her which only the Latin possesses.  “I have always been led to suppose that love plays a very small part in the lives of your countrymen.”  He held the thread of the conversation, but his manner said plainly that he only waited humbly to be enlightened.  “I should have said,” he went on, “an illustration of love in my country as contrasted with yours is shown in the gardens—­just as our gardens bloom all the year, so love blooms always in our hearts; flowers and love, they go together; nowhere in the world are they so perfect as in Italy.”