“Who ever thought he did?  No, poor fellow, he was right enough.  But what was the mistake, I want to know?”

“You could bring no influence to bear, except upon himself, you know.”

“Of course not.  How should I?  E poi?”

“And he could not do as he pleased,” said Quinto, with a slight shrug of his shoulders.  “That was the mistake, cara mia, to endeavour to bring about an object, by influencing some one who had no power to act for themselves in the matter.”

“A very pleasant Job’s comforter you are to-night, Quinto.  I don’t know what you are driving at?” said Bianca, staring at him.

“Only this, my precious child.  I was set thinking of the mistake at Milan by what you said of these two men, the uncle and nephew.  Has it not come into your clever head, mia bella, that we might find here the means of avoiding a repetition of that error?”

“Ah—­h!  Now I see what you are at.  The uncle—­hum—­m—­m,” said Bianca, meditatively; and then shaking her head with closely shut lips.

“And why not the uncle, bambina mia?  I am sure the few words you have said about him are sufficient to point out that an alliance with the Marchese di Castelmare would be an advantageous one for any lady in the land,” said old Quinto, with a demure air, that concealed under it just the least flavour in the world of quiet irony.

“I won’t deny, papa mio, that, being humble as becomes my station,” replied Bianca, in the same tone, “I should be perfectly contented with the style and title of Marchesa di Castelmare.  But what reason have we for thinking that there would be any less difficulty in becoming such than in becoming Duchessa di Lodi?  That, between ourselves, is the question.”

“And what difficulty lay in the way of becoming Duchessa di Lodi?  Certainly none that arose from the Signor Duca.  Governors and fathers, and uncles and aunts, and police commissaries, and the devil knows what, all interfered to keep two young hearts asunder, and spoil the game.  And why did they interfere?—­the devil have them all in his keeping!  Because all the world agrees to believe that such springalds as the Duca di Lodi can’t take care of themselves.  Because it is considered that the titles and acres of such, if not their persons, should be protected against—­against the impulses of their warm hearts, shall we say?  Now, do you think that the world would consider any such protection necessary in the case of the Marchese Lamberto?  Would any governors, or fathers, or uncles, or aunts, or commissaries, interfere to prevent him from doing as he pleased in such a matter?”

“No, I suppose not!” replied Bianca, thoughtfully; “but if no father or uncle did, a nephew might.  It is always the way; people get out of the leading-strings put on them by their elders, only to be entangled in others wound round them by their sons and daughters and nephews and nieces!  The poor old man is beguiled.  We must prevent him from making such a fool of himself!  And the interference is all the worse. and the more fatal, because the poor old man would not only make a fool of himself, but beggars of his protectors.”