e her. You will see
for yourself."

"That speech," I said, "completes the resemblance. She was always
pretending she was not clever, and in reality--"

"In reality she was an angel, eh? To escape from dangerous comparisons I
will admit, then, that I am clever. That will make a difference. But
let us talk of you. You are very--how shall I say it?--very eccentric."

"Is that what your mother told you?"

"To tell the truth, she spoke of you as a great original. But aren't all
Englishmen eccentric? All except that one!" and the Countess pointed to
poor Stanmer, in his corner of the sofa.

"Oh, I know just what he is," I said.

"He's as quiet as a lamb--he's like all the world," cried the Countess.

"Like all the world--yes. He is in love with you."

She looked at me with sudden gravity. "I don't object to your saying
that for all the world--but I do for him."

"Well," I went on, "he is peculiar in this: he is rather afraid of you."

Instantly she began to smile; she turned her face toward Stanmer. He had
seen that we were talking about him; he coloured and got up--then came
toward us.

"I like men who are afraid of nothing," said our hostess.

"I know what you want," I said to Stanmer. "You want to know what the
Signora Contessa says about you."

Stanmer looked straight into her face, very gravely. "I don't care a
straw what she says."

"You are almost a match for the Signora Contessa," I answered. "She
declares she doesn't care a pin's head what you think."

"I recognise the Countess's style!" Stanmer exclaimed, turning away.

"One would think," said the Countess, "that you were trying to make a
quarrel between us."

I watched him move away to another part of the great saloon; he stood in
front of the Andrea del Sarto, looking up at it. But he was not seeing
it; he was listening to what we might say. I often stood there in just
that way. "He can't quarrel with you, any more than I could have
quarrelled with your mother."

"Ah, but you did. Something painful passed between you."

"Yes, it was painful, but it was not a quarrel. I went away one day and
never saw her again. That was all."

The Countess looked at me gravely. "What do you call it when a man does
that?"

"It depends upon the case."

"Sometimes," said the Countess in French, "it's a _lachete_."

"Yes, and sometimes it's an act of wisdom."

"And sometimes," rejoined the Countess, "it's a mistake."

I shook my hea