“One—­hundred—­and—­fifty—­thousand!” he repeated slowly.  “Why, it is a fortune in itself!  Dear me!  I had no idea you would name anything so large—–­”

“Seven thousand five hundred scudi a year, at five per cent,” remarked the younger man in a businesslike tone.  “You give the same.  That will insure our children an income of fifteen thousand scudi.  It is not colossal, but it should suffice.  Besides, I have not said that I would not leave them more, if I chanced to have more to leave.”

The prince had sunk back into his chair, and sat drumming on the table with his long thin fingers.  His face wore an air of mingled surprise and bewilderment.  To tell the truth, he had expected that San Giacinto would name about fifty thousand as the sum requisite.  He did not know whether to be delighted at the prospect of marrying his daughter so well or angry at the idea of having committed himself to part with so much money.

“That is much more than I gave my other daughters,” he said at last, in a tone of hesitation.

“Did you give the money to them or to their husbands?” inquired San Giacinto.

“To their husbands, of course.”

“Then allow me to point out that you will now be merely settling money in your own family, and that the case is very different.  Not only that, but I am settling the same sum upon your family, instead of taking your money for my own use.  You are manifestly the gainer by the transaction.”

“It would be the same, then, if I left Flavia the money at my death, since it remains in the family,” suggested the prince, who sought an escape from his bargain.

“Not exactly,” argued San Giacinto.  “First there is the yearly interest until your death, which I trust is yet very distant.  And then there is the uncertainty of human affairs.  It will be necessary that you invest the money in trust, as I shall do, at the time of signing the contract.  Otherwise there would be no fairness in the arrangement.”

“So you say that you are descended from the elder branch of the Saracinesca.  How strange are the ways of Providence, my dear Marchese!”

“It was a piece of great folly on the part of my great-grandfather,” replied the other, shrugging his shoulders.  “You should never say that a man will not marry until he is dead.”

“Ah no!  The ways of heaven are inscrutable!  It is not for us poor mortals to attempt to change them.  I suppose that agreement of which you speak was made in proper form and quite regular.”

“I presume so, since no effort was ever made to change the dispositions established by it.”

“I suppose so—­I suppose so, dear Marchese.  It would be very interesting to see those papers.”

“My cousin has them,” said San Giacinto.  “I daresay he will not object.  But, pardon me if I return to a subject which is very near my heart.  Do I understand that you consent to the proposal I have made?  If so, we might make arrangements for a meeting to take place between our notaries.”