“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!”

“Ah,” said I, laughing, “you are quite as clever as your mother.”

“And they tell me that you are a great soldier,” she continued; “you have lived in India.  It was very kind of you, so far away, to have remembered our poor dear Italy.”

“One always remembers Italy; the distance makes no difference.  I remembered it well the day I heard of your mother’s death!”

“Ah, that was a sorrow!” said the Countess.  “There’s not a day that I don’t weep for her.  But che vuole?  She’s a saint its paradise.”

“Sicuro,” I answered; and I looked some time at the ground.  “But tell me about yourself, dear lady,” I asked at last, raising my eyes.  “You have also had the sorrow of losing your husband.”

“I am a poor widow, as you see. Che vuole?  My husband died after three years of marriage.”

I waited for her to remark that the late Count Scarabelli was also a saint in paradise, but I waited in vain.

“That was like your distinguished father,” I said.

“Yes, he too died young.  I can’t be said to have known him; I was but of the age of my own little girl.  But I weep for him all the more.”

Again I was silent for a moment.

“It was in India too,” I said presently, “that I heard of your mother’s second marriage.”

The Countess raised her eyebrows.

“In India, then, one hears of everything!  Did that news please you?”

“Well, since you ask me—­no.”

“I understand that,” said the Countess, looking at her open fan.  “I shall not marry again like that.”

“That’s what your mother said to me,” I ventured to observe.

She was not offended, but she rose from her seat and stood looking at me a moment.  Then—­“You should not have gone away!” she exclaimed.  I stayed for another hour; it is a very pleasant house.