What could it possibly matter whether Marcantonio were hungry or not, or what he ate for dinner? But Leonora was glad to have him say anything, so that she might be spared the effort of talking.
"It is true," she said, absently, "his mayonnaise is not bad."
She hoped he would go on; it was an easy, neutral subject—of many ingredients, concerning each of which it would be possible to differ and to raise a fresh discussion.
"Apropos," said Marcantonio, "the gardener's boy cut his finger very badly this afternoon"—
"Apropos of mayonnaise?" Leonora could not help asking the question. His conversation was so absurd.
"Ma foi! mayonnaise—vegetables—gardens—gardeners and the gardener's boy—all that holds together. As I was saying, he cut his finger, and I sent your maid to get something to bind it with."
"I hope she did not take one of my lace handkerchiefs," remarked Leonora. "It would be just like her."
"It was not lace, I am sure," said Marcantonio, with an air of conviction, as he helped himself to the salad which Temistocle handed him. "But it looked very new. I hope she made no mistake."
The comic side of the situation suddenly forced itself on Leonora, as it often will happen with people on the eve of great danger. A lackey in Paris once danced a jig on the scaffold before he was broken on the wheel. Leonora laughed aloud.
"Would it amuse you, for instance," inquired Marcantonio with a puzzled look, "to have a good handkerchief destroyed to tie up the boy's finger?"