I inclined myself, smiling, in a manner which might have meant—­“How could that be possible?”

“I have a great esteem for him,” she went on; “I want him to think well of me.  If I am a puzzle to him, do me a little service.  Explain me to him.”

“Explain you, dear lady?”

“You are older and wiser than he.  Make him understand me.”

She looked deep into my eyes for a moment, and then she turned away.

26th.—­I have written nothing for a good many days, but meanwhile I have been half a dozen times to Casa Salvi.  I have seen a good deal also of my young friend—­had a good many walks and talks with him.  I have proposed to him to come with me to Venice for a fortnight, but he won’t listen to the idea of leaving Florence.  He is very happy in spite of his doubts, and I confess that in the perception of his happiness I have lived over again my own.  This is so much the case that when, the other day, he at last made up his mind to ask me to tell him the wrong that Madame de Salvi had done me, I rather checked his curiosity.  I told him that if he was bent upon knowing I would satisfy him, but that it seemed a pity, just now, to indulge in painful imagery.

“But I thought you wanted so much to put me out of conceit of our friend.”

“I admit I am inconsistent, but there are various reasons for it.  In the first place—­it’s obvious—­I am open to the charge of playing a double game.  I profess an admiration for the Countess Scarabelli, for I accept her hospitality, and at the same time I attempt to poison your mind; isn’t that the proper expression?  I can’t exactly make up my mind to that, though my admiration for the Countess and my desire to prevent you from taking a foolish step are equally sincere.  And then, in the second place, you seem to me, on the whole, so happy!  One hesitates to destroy an illusion, no matter how pernicious, that is so delightful while it lasts.  These are the rare moments of life.  To be young and ardent, in the midst of an Italian spring, and to believe in the moral perfection of a beautiful woman—­what an admirable situation!  Float with the current; I’ll stand on the brink and watch you.”

“Your real reason is that you feel you have no case against the poor lady,” said Stanmer.  “You admire her as much as I do.”

“I just admitted that I admired her.  I never said she was a vulgar flirt; her mother was an absolutely scientific one.  Heaven knows I admired that!  It’s a nice point, however, how much one is hound in honour not to warn a young friend against a dangerous woman because one also has relations of civility with the lady.”

“In such a case,” said Stanmer, “I would break off my relations.”

I looked at him, and I think I laughed.

“Are you jealous of me, by chance?”

He shook his head emphatically.

“Not in the least; I like to see you there, because your conduct contradicts your words.”