"On condition that Beatrice makes no comments. Give me a cigarette,
Teresina."
"The congregation will not interrupt the preacher before the benediction," said Beatrice folding her small hands on her knee, and looking down with a devout expression.
"Charm," began San Miniato, "is the something which some women possess, and which holds the men who love them—"
"Only those who love them?" interrupted Beatrice, looking up quickly.
"I thought," said the Marchesa, "that you were not to give us any comments." She dropped the words one or two at a time between the puffs of her cigarette.
"A question is not a comment, mamma. I ask for instruction."
"Go on, dearest friend," said her mother to the Count. "She is incorrigible."
"On the contrary, Donna Beatrice fills my empty head with ideas. The question was to the point. All men feel the charm of such women as all men smell the orange blossoms here in May—"
"The language of flowers again!" laughed Beatrice.
"You are so like a flower," answered San Miniato softly.