“One hundred and fifty thousand,” said Montevarchi, slowly rubbing his pointed chin with his bony lingers.  “Five per cent—­seven thousand five hundred—­a mint of money, Signor Marchese, a mint of money!  And these are hard times.  What a rich man you must be, to talk so lightly about such immense sums!  Well, well—­you are very eloquent, I must consent, and by strict economy I may perhaps succeed in recovering the loss.”

“You must be aware that it is not really a loss,” argued San Giacinto, “since it is to remain with your daughter and her children, and consequently with your family.”

“Yes, I know.  But money is money, my friend,” exclaimed the prince, laying his right hand on the old green tablecover and slowly drawing his crooked nails over the cloth, as though he would like to squeeze gold out of the dusty wool.  There was something almost fierce in his tone, too, as he uttered the words, and his small eyes glittered unpleasantly.  He knew well enough that he was making a good bargain and that San Giacinto was a better match than he had ever hoped to get for Flavia.  So anxious was he, indeed, to secure the prize that he entirely abstained from asking any questions concerning San Giacinto’s past life, whereby some obstacle might have been raised to the intended marriage.  He promised himself that the wedding should take place at once.

“It is understood,” he continued, after a pause, “that we or our notaries shall appear with the money in cash, and that it shall be immediately invested as we shall jointly decide, the settlements being made at the same time and on the spot.”

“Precisely so,” replied San Giacinto.  “No money, no contract.”

“In that case I will inform my daughter of my decision.”

“I shall be glad to avail myself of an early opportunity to pay my respects to Donna Flavia.”

“The wedding might take place on the 30th of November, my dear Marchese.  The 1st of December is Advent Sunday, and no marriages are permitted during Advent without a special licence.”

“An expensive affair, doubtless,” remarked San Giacinto, gravely, in spite of his desire to laugh.

“Yes.  Five scudi at least,” answered Montevarchi, impressively.  “Let us by all means be economical.”

“The Holy Church is very strict about these matters, and you may as well keep the money.”

“I will,” replied San Giacinto, rising to go.  “Do not let me detain you any longer.  Pray accept my warmest thanks, and allow me to say that I shall consider it a very great honour to become your son-in-law.”

“Ah, indeed, you are very good, my dear Marchese.  As for me I need consolation.  Consider a father’s feelings, when he consigns his beloved daughter—­Flavia is an angel upon earth, my friend—­when, I say, a father gives his dear child, whom he loves as the apple of his eye, to be carried off by a man—­a man even of your worth!  When your children are grown up, you will understand what I suffer.”