in the nature of a Philistine with a little
admixture of Ciceronism--pass the word--and a dash of Cato Censor to
sour the whole--a delight to school-masterly spirits, a terror to lively
damsels, the laughing-stock of the worldly wise and only just too wise
to find a congenial atmosphere in the every-day world. However, as San
Miniato just escaped the application of the adjective I have been trying
to translate, it is enough to say that he was not exactly a "serious
man," being excluded from that variety of the species by his passion
for play, which was dominant, and by the incidents of his past history,
which had not been dull.

It is true that a liking for cards and a reputation for success gained
in former love affairs are not in any sense a substitute for the outward
and attractive expressions of a genuine and present passion, but they
are better than nothing when they serve to combat such a formidable
imputation as that of "seriousness." Anything is better than that, and
as Beatrice Granmichele was inclined to like the man without knowing
why, she made the most of the few stories about him which reached her
maiden ears, and of his taste for gaming, in order to render him
interesting in her own eyes. He did, indeed, make more or less pretty
speeches to her from time to time, of a cheerfully complimentary
character when he had won money, of a gracefully melancholy nature when
he had lost, but she was far too womanly not to miss something very
essential in what he said and in his way of saying it. A woman may love
flattery ever so much and have ever so strong a moral absorbent system
with which to digest it; she does not hate banality the less. There is
no such word as banality in the English tongue, but there might be, and
if there were, it would mean that peculiarly tasteless and saltless
nature of actions and speeches done and delivered by persons who are
born dull, or who are mentally exhausted, or are absent-minded, or very
shy, but who, in spite of natural or accidental disadvantages are
determined to make themselves agreeable. The standard of banality
differs indeed for every woman, and with every woman for almost every
hour of the day, and men of the world who husband their worldly
resources are aware of the fact. Angelina at three in the afternoon,
fresh from rest and luncheon--if both agree with her--is wreathed in
smiles at a little speech of Edwin's which would taste like sweet
camomile tea after dry champa