“I hope you are not leaving Florence yet,” she said; “you will stay a while longer?”

I answered that I came only for a week, and that my week was over.

“I stay on from day to day, I am so much interested.”

“Eh, it’s the beautiful moment.  I’m glad our city pleases you!”

“Florence pleases me—­and I take a paternal interest to our young friend,” I added, glancing at Stanmer.  “I have become very fond of him.”

“Bel tipo inglese,” said my hostess.  “And he is very intelligent; he has a beautiful mind.”

She stood there resting her smile and her clear, expressive eyes upon me.

“I don’t like to praise him too much,” I rejoined, “lest I should appear to praise myself; he reminds me so much of what I was at his age.  If your beautiful mother were to come to life for an hour she would see the resemblance.”

She gave me a little amused stare.

“And yet you don’t look at all like him!”

“Ah, you didn’t know me when I was twenty-five.  I was very handsome!  And, moreover, it isn’t that, it’s the mental resemblance.  I was ingenuous, candid, trusting, like him.”

“Trusting?  I remember my mother once telling me that you were the most suspicious and jealous of men!”

“I fell into a suspicious mood, but I was, fundamentally, not in the least addicted to thinking evil.  I couldn’t easily imagine any harm of any one.”

“And so you mean that Mr. Stanmer is in a suspicions mood?”

“Well, I mean that his situation is the same as mine.”

The Countess gave me one of her serious looks.  “Come,” she said, “what was it—­this famous situation of yours?  I have heard you mention it before.”

“Your mother might have told you, since she occasionally did me the honour to speak of me.”

“All my mother ever told me was that you were—­a sad puzzle to her.”

At this, of course, I laughed out—­I laugh still as I write it.

“Well, then, that was my situation—­I was a sad puzzle to a very clever woman.”

“And you mean, therefore, that I am a puzzle to poor Mr. Stanmer?”

“He is racking his brains to make you out.  Remember it was you who said he was intelligent.”

She looked round at him, and as fortune would have it, his appearance at that moment quite confirmed my assertion.  He was lounging back in his chair with an air of indolence rather too marked for a drawing-room, and staring at the ceiling with the expression of a man who has just been asked a conundrum.  Madame Scarabelli seemed struck with his attitude.

“Don’t you see,” I said, “he can’t read the riddle?”

“You yourself,” she answered, “said he was incapable of thinking evil.  I should be sorry to have him think any evil of me.”

And she looked straight at me—­seriously, appealingly—­with her beautiful candid brow.