“And I further decree that if my wife Sara Mary di Corleone, née de Courcy, shall again enter the married state, that she shall immediately forfeit all the money and estates herein willed to her, and shall have no further claim upon them whatsoever. And that they shall, in the case of her marriage, pass into the possession of my nephew, Antonio di Corleone. And I leave in the hands of my executors—before herein named—a letter, sealed and addressed to my wife the above Sara Mary di Corleone, née de Courcy, which letter, in the event of her marriage, shall be given into her hands one hour precisely after the ceremony has taken place. In the event of her demise without re-marriage, the said letter shall be destroyed unopened by and in the presence of the executors above-named. Written by me this fourteenth day of January,” etc., etc.
Sara opened her eyes and sat up again.
“It was all signed and witnessed just a year before he died. It’s all horribly correct. Fixed up as firmly as yards of red tape can tie it. And if I marry I lose every centesimo and my beloved Casa di Corleone, and if I don’t marry I shall never see the inside of that letter. Did you ever know such a trying situation for a luxury-loving and curious woman in your life?”
“I fancy,” said Christopher, “that the curiosity does not trouble you greatly.”
“It does not,” she confessed. “But the will! You must allow that is annoying. It puts my mind and my affections in a kind of mental strait-jacket. Every time I see a charming man——”
“Me, for instance,” said Christopher.
“No, mercifully not you,” said Sara. “We are one of the few exceptions that prove the generally accepted rule of the non-existence of platonic friendship between men and women. You are the most delightful combination of friend and father-confessor that ever existed, without—Heaven be praised—a trace of the lover. Where was I before you interrupted?”
“Looking at a charming man,” said Christopher.
“Oh, yes. Whenever I see a charming man I have to tell myself to be careful, to run no risk of my heart getting in the smallest degree involved. I call up mental pictures of coffers upon coffers—thousands of them—crammed with centesimi. I shut my eyes and see the courtyard, the oranges, and the marble fauns, then I open them and look at the charming man and feel more secure. But I daren’t run the tiniest risk for fear of the consequences. I can’t—” she almost wailed the words, “I can’t even flirt.”
“As your father-confessor,” said Christopher, “I am glad to hear it.”