"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 head. "For me it was no mistake." She began to laugh again. "Caro Signore, you're a great original. What had my poor mother done to you?" I looked at our young Englishman, who still had his back turned to us and was staring up at the picture. "I will tell you some other time," I said. "I shall certainly remind you; I am very curious to know." Then she opened and shut her fan two or three times, still looking at me. What eyes they have! "Tell me a little," she went on, "if I may ask without indiscretion. Are you married?" "No, Signora Contessa." "Isn't that at least a mistake?" "Do I look very unhappy?" She dropped her head a little to one side. "For an Englishman--no!"