Even that did not provoke her to laughter. She gazed at me meditatively for a moment, and then she shook her head. “Your wound will heal. When our wounds are fresh, it always seems as if they would never heal. But they do heal. Yours will heal. You must try to think of other things. You must try to interest yourself in other girls—oh, platonically, I mean, of course. There are lots of nice girls in the world, you know. You must try not to think of Elsie. It’s no good thinking of her, now that she’s engaged to Captain Bullen. But—but when you can’t help thinking of her, then you must come to me and talk it out. That is always better, healthier, than brooding upon a grief in silence. You must come to me whenever you feel you wish to. I shall always be glad when you come.” “You’re a—you’re an angel of kindness,” I declared, with emotion. “I—I was thinking only the other day, when you had driven me home from the Borghese, I was thinking that, except my own mother, you’re the—the best and dearest woman in the world.” But at this, she could be grave no longer. She laughed gaily. “If I come next to your mother in your affections,” she said, “it’s almost as if I were your grandmother, isn’t it? Yes, that is it. I’ll be a grandmother to you.” And she made me a comical little moue. After that, it was my excellent fortune to see the Contessa Bracca rather frequently. I called on her a good deal; she asked me to dine and lunch with her a good deal; I spent a surprising number of afternoons and evenings in her blue-and-white retiring-room. Then she used to take me to drive with her in the Villa Borghese or on the Pincian; and sometimes we would go for walks together in the Campagna. Of course, I was a regular visitor in her box at the opera: otherwise, the land had not been Italy, nor the town Rome. I liked her and enjoyed her inexpressibly; she was so witty and lively, so sympathetic, such a frank good comrade; she was so pretty and delicate and distinguished. “I can never make you understand,” I confessed to her, “how much fuller and richer and more delightful life is since I have known you.” I was, in fact, quite improbably happy, though I scarcely suspected it at the time. I had not forgotten that my rôle was the disconsolate lover; I must still now and again perorate about Elsie, and grieve over my painted wounds. The Contessa always listened patiently, with an air of commiseration. And I read her every line I wrote (poor woman!) whilst she criticised, suggested, encouraged. The calf is a queer animal.