“I wish to speak to you upon a delicate subject,” began the younger man, after seating himself upon one of the high-backed chairs which cracked ominously under his weight.

“I am at your service,” replied the old gentleman, inclining his head politely.

“I feel,” continued San Giacinto, “that although my personal acquaintance with you has unfortunately been of short duration, the familiarity which exists between your family and mine will entitle what I have to say to a share of your consideration.  The proposal which I have to make has perhaps been made by others before me and has been rejected.  I have the honour to ask of you the hand of your daughter.”

“Faustina, I suppose?” asked the old prince in an indifferent tone, but looking sharply at his companion out of his small keen eyes.

“Pardon me, I refer to Donna Flavia Montevarchi.”

“Flavia?” repeated the prince, in a tone of unmistakable surprise, which however was instantly moderated to the indifferent key again as he proceeded.  “You see, we have been thinking so much about my daughter Faustina since last night that her name came to my lips quite naturally.”

“Most natural, I am sure,” answered San Giacinto; who, however, had understood at once that his suit was to have a hearing.  He then remained silent.

“You wish to marry Flavia, I understand,” remarked the prince after a pause.  “I believe you are a widower, Marchese.  I have heard that you have children.”

“Two boys.”

“Two boys, eh?  I congratulate you.  Boys, if brought up in Christian principles, are much less troublesome than girls.  But, my dear Marchese, these same boys are an obstacle—­a very serious obstacle.”

“Less serious than you may imagine, perhaps.  My fortune does not come under the law of primogeniture.  There is no fidei commissum.  I can dispose of it as I please.”

“Eh, eh!  But there must be a provision,” said Montevarchi, growing interested in the subject.

“That shall be mutual,” replied San Giacinto, gravely.

“I suppose you mean to refer to my daughter’s portion,” returned the other with more indifference.  “It is not much, you know—­ scarcely worth mentioning.  I am bound to tell you that, in honour.”

“We must certainly discuss the matter, if you are inclined to consider my proposal.”

“Well, you know what young women’s dowries are in these days, my dear Marchese.  We are none of us very rich.”

“I will make a proposal,” said San Giacinto.  “You shall give your daughter a portion.  Whatever be the amount, up to a reasonable limit, which you choose to give, I will settle a like sum in such a manner that at my death it shall revert to her, and to her children by me, if she have any.”

“That amounts merely to settling upon herself the dowry I give her,” replied Montevarchi, sharply.  “I give you a scudo for your use.  You settle my scudo upon your wife, that is all.”