“True; on his handkerchief. But Madonna forgets one thing. The fat, thus impregnated, has to be dissolved in alcohol, a very devilish liquor, before the fragrance is released from it. Wherefore sanctity does not count in the result.”
“I was forgetting. So, after all, you brew wicked concoctions, grandfather. I shall ask to have you put in the escalero.”
“Not you. You would not hurt a beetle. Besides, where then would you get your scents?”
“I would distil them from the simple flowers.”
“Pooh! That is what fools imagine. But flowers do not yield their essence to torture, any more than truth comes out of the escalero.”
“I did not mean it really.”
Aquaviva looked at the girl with a grim smile, and wagged his head.
“You holy love!” he said. “How long are you going to keep me in torment with this load?”
She moved, with an exclamation of remorse, to let him pass. Going before her, he deposited his armful of frames within the bungalow, where were already heaped some scores of others.
“Now,” said he, turning round and rubbing his arms; “repeat your lesson, profumiere.”