She was a large and handsome person of middle age, with a great mass of fair hair, and she gave me the feeling that in her case the body of a woman was inhabited by the soul of a man.

She christened me her little Irish bambino, meaning her child; and one night in her drawing-room, after dinner, before the men had joined us, she called me to her side on the couch, lit a cigarette, crossed her legs, and gave us with startling candour her views of the marriage bond.

“What can you expect, you women?” she said.  “You run after the men for their titles—­they’ve very little else, except debts, poor things—­and what is the result?  The first result is that though you have bought them you belong to them.  Yes, your husband owns his beautiful woman, just as he owns his beautiful horse or his beautiful dog.”

This was so pointed that I felt my face growing crimson, but Alma and the other women only laughed, so the Countess went on: 

“What then?  Once in a blue moon each goes his and her own way without sin.  You agree to a sort of partnership for mutual advantage in which you live together in chastity under the same roof.  What a life!  What an ice-house!”

Again the other women laughed, but I felt myself blushing deeply.

“But in the majority of cases it is quite otherwise.  The business purpose served, each is open to other emotions.  The man becomes unfaithful, and the woman, if she has any spirit, pays him out tit for tat—­and why shouldn’t she?”

After that I could bear no more, and before I knew what I was saying I blurted out: 

“But I find that wrong and wicked.  Infidelity on the part of the man does not justify infidelity in the woman.  The prayer-book says so.”

Alma burst out laughing, and the Countess smiled and continued: 

“Once in a hundred years there comes a great passion—­Dante and Beatrice, Petrarch and Laura.  The woman meets the right man too late.  What a tragedy!  What a daily and hourly crucifixion!  Unless,” said the Countess with emphasis, “she is prepared to renounce the law and reject society and live a life of complete emancipation.  But in a Catholic country, where there is no divorce, what woman can afford to do that?  Nobody in the higher classes can—­especially if she has to sacrifice her title.  So the wise woman avoids scandal, keeps her little affair with her lover to herself, and . . . and that’s marriage, my dears.”

A twitter of approval, led by Alma, came from the other women, but I was quivering with anger and I said: 

“Then marriage is an hypocrisy and an imposture.  If I found I loved somebody better than my husband, I should go to him in spite of the law, and society, and title and . . . and everything.”

“Of course you would, my dear,” said the Countess, smiling at me as at a child, “but that’s because you are such a sweet, simple, innocent little Irish bambino.”