Wending her way, everywhere by great bushes of lavender and rosemary, she came presently upon the old gardener himself, busy near the laboratory, a central bungalow where were achieved the processes of _macération_ and _enfleurage_--otherwise the capture and storage of the world of fugitive perfumes which diffused themselves around. Aquaviva carried in his sinewy arms a pile of glazed stretchers, like small window sashes, or, a more appropriate simile in these days, like large photographic printing frames, and, seeing Isabella, he paused with a sardonic pucker of the lips. “Ah!” said he, “I could have sworn it. A right morning for gadflies.” His _torso_ was like a lean-bellied fiddle, the string which bound his green baize apron round his waist helping the resemblance. Great bent shoulders and thin bent shanks had he, with enormous shoes to his feet and an enormous aquiline nose to his face. His expression was by no means truckling or conciliatory; he knew his value with the dames and exquisites of Parma. Isabella laughed: “O, grandfather!” she said, “is that the way to greet your princess? See how I sting you with honey for your rudeness.” “Hey,” said the old man, “hoping to make me drop my frames? But beware. It is the treasure of a dukedom I carry within them.” She stretched up, and pulled at a frame, trying to peep. “What is it, avolo mio? Is it lilies, jasmine, violets?” “It is not for the common ruck. I tell you it is of the ducal brand--the essence of all flowers in one.” “It is tuberose.” “Spoken, Madonna, like an intelligent daughter. Between us we shall guess, sooner or later, what is his Excellency’s favourite perfume.” “Why this is it, is it not?” “Capital, on my faith. She has guessed it already.” “Grandfather, I do not like you. I shall be severe. Tell me at once, is the grease on which these flowers are spread well purified in boiling water and nitre?” “It is well purified, Madonna.” “Has it since been boiled in a solution of rose-water and benzoin?” “That is so, Madonna.” He answered with an amused, approving grin. “And was the grease originally of choice selection?” “The most choice, Madonna. The butcher who provided the ox who provided the suet is fourth cousin to a saint. The odour of sanctity is over it all from the first.” “That is very good, then. My father will like to acquire sanctity so easily and so pleasantly.” “True; on his handkerchief. But Madonna forgets one thing. The fat, thus impregnated, has to be dissolved in alcohol, a very devilish liquor, before the fragrance is released from it. Wherefore sanctity does not count in the result.” “I was forgetting. So, after all, you brew wicked concoctions, grandfather. I shall ask to have you put in the escalero.” “Not you. You would not hurt a beetle. Besides, where then would you get your scents?” “I would distil them from the simple flowers.”