“I quite understand,” said San Giacinto in serious tones.  “It shall be the endeavour of my life to make you forget your loss.  May I have the honour of calling to-morrow at this time?”

“Yes, my dear Marchese, yes, my dear son—­forgive a father’s tenderness.  To-morrow at this time, and—–­” he hesitated.  “And then—­some time before the ceremony, perhaps—­you will give us the pleasure of your company at breakfast, I am sure, will you not?  We are very simple people, but we are hospitable in our quiet way.  Hospitality is a virtue,” he sighed a little.  “A necessary virtue,” he added with some emphasis upon the adjective.

“It will give me great pleasure,” replied San Giacinto.

Therewith he left the room and a few moments later was walking slowly homewards, revolving in his mind the probable results of his union with the Montevarchi family.

When Montevarchi was alone, he smiled pleasantly to himself, and took out of a secret drawer a large book of accounts, in the study of which he spent nearly half an hour, with evident satisfaction.  Having carefully locked up the volume, and returned the sliding panel to its place, he sent for his wife, who presently appeared.

“Sit down, Guendalina,” he said.  “I will change my coat, and then I have something important to say to you.”

He had quite forgotten the inevitable change in his satisfaction over the interview with San Giacinto, but the sight of the princess recalled the necessity for economy.  It had been a part of the business of his life to set her a good example in this respect.  When he came back he seated himself before her.

“My dear, I have got a husband for Flavia,” were his first words.

“At last!” exclaimed the princess.  “I hope he is presentable,” she added.  She knew that she could trust her husband in the matter of fortune.

“The new Saracinesca—­the Marchese di San Giacinto.”

Princess Montevarchi’s ruddy face expressed the greatest astonishment, and her jaw dropped as she stared at the old gentleman.

“A pauper!” she exclaimed when she had recovered herself enough to speak.

“Perhaps, Guendalina mia—­but he settles a hundred and fifty thousand scudi on Flavia and her heirs for ever, the money to be paid on the signing of the contract.  That does not look like pauperism.  Of course, under the circumstances I agreed to do the same.  It is settled on Flavia, do you understand?  He does not want a penny of it, not a penny!  Trust your husband for a serious man of business, Guendalina.”

“Have you spoken to Flavia?  It certainly looks like a good match.  There is no doubt about his being of the Saracinesca, of course.  How could there be?  They have taken him to their hearts.  But how will Flavia behave?”

“What a foolish question, my dear!” exclaimed Montevarchi.  “How easily one sees that you are English!  She will be delighted, I presume.  And if not, what difference does it make?”