“An Adonis!  No; she did not expect an Adonis; but she thought he would have something of the honor and feelings of a man.”

“She found it uncomfortable, no doubt.  He did too much of this, you know,” said the count, raising his glass to his lips; “and he didn’t do it with 51 Lafitte.  That was Ongar’s fault.  All the world knew it for the last ten years.  No one knew it better than Hugh Clavering.”

“But—­” said Harry, and then he stopped.  He hardly knew what it was that he wished to learn from the man, though he certainly did wish to learn something.  He had thought that the count would himself have talked about Lady Ongar and those Florentine days, but this he did not seem disposed to do.  “Shall we have our cigars now?” said Count Pateroff.

“One moment, if you don’t mind.”

“Certainly, certainly.  There is no hurry.”

“You will take no more wine?”

“No more wine.  I take my wine at dinner, as you saw.”

“I want to ask you one special question—­about Lady Ongar.”

“I will say anything in her favor that you please.  I am always ready to say anything in the favor of any lady, and, if needs be, to swear it.  Bu anything against any lady nobody ever heard me say.”

Harry was sharp enough to perceive that any assertion made under such a stipulation was worse than nothing.  It was as when a man, in denying the truth of a statement, does so with an assurance that on that subject he should consider himself justified in telling any number of lies.  “I did not write the book—­but you have no right to ask the question; and I should say that I had not, even if I had.”  Pateroff was speaking of Lady Ongar in this way, and Harry hated him for doing so.

“I don’t want you to say any good of her,” said he, “or any evil.”

“I certainly shall say no evil of her.”

“But I think you know that she has been most cruelly treated.”

“Well, there is about seven-thousand-pounds a year, I think!  Seven-thousand a year!  Not francs, but pounds!  We poor foreigners lose ourselves in amazement when we hear about your English fortunes.  Seven-thousand pounds a year for a lady all alone, and a beautiful house!  A house so beautiful, they tell me!”

“What has that to do with it?” said Harry; whereupon the count again shrugged his shoulders.  “What has that to do with it?  Because the man was rich he was not justified in ill-treating his wife.  Did he not bring false accusations against her, in order that he might rob her after his death of all that of which you think so much?  Did he not hear false witness against her, to his own dishonor?”

“She has got the money, I think—­and the beautiful house.”

“But her name has been covered with lies.”

“What can I do?  Why do you ask me?  I know nothing.  Look here, Mr. Clavering, if you want to make any inquiry you had better go to my sister.  I don’t see what good it will do, but she will talk to you by the hour together, if you wish it.  Let us smoke.”