“Pooh! That is what fools imagine. But flowers do not yield their essence to torture, any more than truth comes out of the escalero.” “I did not mean it really.” Aquaviva looked at the girl with a grim smile, and wagged his head. “You holy love!” he said. “How long are you going to keep me in torment with this load?” She moved, with an exclamation of remorse, to let him pass. Going before her, he deposited his armful of frames within the bungalow, where were already heaped some scores of others. “Now,” said he, turning round and rubbing his arms; “repeat your lesson, profumiere.” She put her hands behind her back, as she stood before him. “I boil and refine my grease,” she said, “in the flowerless time, storing ready a great quantity of it. When the flowers come, each in its season, I gather them and place them on these frames, every one of which is smeared thick with the fat, which has the property of absorbing their fragrance. I pile these frames one on the other to the number of--O, the heaps that you see there; and leave them thus, the light and heat penetrating, for----” “Go on.” “Ever so long a time.” “From twenty-four to thirty-six hours will do.” “That is what I meant. When the flowers have yielded all they can, I remove them and put fresh ones, and so on until the fat is so fully charged with their fragrance that it can hold no more. I then scrape off the grease, heat it until liquid, then strain it and pour it into bottles, ready for treatment by the perfumers, with their--with their alcohol.” “Capital. Madonna has my certificate. And now about macération?” “That is steeping the flowers in cold olive oil. Some, like cassia, answer better to such treatment.” “Excellent! And so do not talk to me any more about your distillation, which is an inferior process applied only to the leaves, seeds and other parts of perfume-bearing plants, and in its results resembles no more the sweet breath of the blossoms than your ladyship’s vulgar camériste, Fanchette Becquet, resembles your ladyship.” “Grandfather! What do you know about Fanchette?” “Only what Bissy has told me, Madonna.” “And what does Bissy know?” “Ask him. He has all the wisdom of an owl. You did not come here unattended?” “Madame de Gonzalès drove with me. She is sleeping in the carriage.” “I warrant it, the old sluggard. If they shot women, she would be riddled like a pepper-box for a false sentry.” “You must not speak so of my gouvernante.” “Well, I will not. If it comes to that, I could forgive all Spaniards for your sake.” Isabella turned, her slim tallish young figure suddenly erect. “I will go and look for Bissy,” she said stiffly. “You will find him in the orange-grove,” called Aquaviva, and returned, grinning, to his work.