“The parents who bring a child into the world,” Vera argued, “especially a female child, are responsible for her support. When she marries, they are bound to settle the largest sum upon her they can afford. They must make a sacrifice for their child.” There is a sort of finality about a disaster like the Q.’s that we Americans can hardly conceive of; with us failure so often spells success. If a young man’s father is ruined, we say of him (we are beginning to say it of his sister)--“This gives him a chance to show the stuff he’s made of!” After leaving Vera I went back to the terrace, to watch the sun set over Mons Vaticanus. Ignazio was there before me, grafting a new American Beauty rose on the stem of the big Banksia. “You have three sisters, Ignazio,” I began. “You have told me your father is dead.” “And in Paradise, I trust, this long time; I have not grudged masses for his soul.” “A good son! How did he leave his money? Did your sisters have dowries?” “He divided his money into two parts--my mother already being in glory. A little more than half he left to me, the only son. That was right, for so the greater part of the property remains in the _casa paterna_. The other half he divided between my three sisters. The oldest went into a convent; it was her wish, you understand. Her share was paid just as if she had married. The second espoused a _vignerolo_ and invested her money in a new vineyard; they have prospered. The little one, Teresina, would go to the convent, where was Maria, the oldest. But that one, she is intelligent, fine, very fine, sent Teresina a letter--God knows how she managed it--telling her on her life not to come to that convent. Soon Teresina found a husband, a baker; he has a good business. Teresina has given him plenty of mouths to feed, three boys and five girls. That is better than a convent. Yes, I believe in the good God, Signora; I am not a free mason, nor an anarchist, but I think a girl can serve Him as well in the world, and far more pleasantly, than in a convent.” “You have a daughter?” “With respect, I have four. No convent for them; it is worse than a prison! If my daughter went to a prison I might see her again; but to a convent, never--it is finished.” “You will give your girls a good dowry.” “I am a poor man, times are hard, that fellow Cesare, my assistant, is a thief--the Signora knows it--but something I shall do for them.”