“She was not like most other women in any way,” I declared.

“Ah, she was charming,” cried the Countess, rattling open her fan.  “I have always been very curious to see you.  I have received an impression of you.”

“A good one, I hope.”

She looked at me, laughing, and not answering this:  it was just her mother’s trick.

“‘My Englishman,’ she used to call you—­’il mio Inglese.’”

“I hope she spoke of me kindly,” I insisted.

The Countess, still laughing, gave a little shrug balancing her hand to and fro.  “So-so; I always supposed you had had a quarrel.  You don’t mind my being frank like this—­eh?”

“I delight in it; it reminds me of your mother.”

“Every one tells me that.  But I am not clever like her.  You will see for yourself.”

“That speech,” I said, “completes the resemblance.  She was always pretending she was not clever, and in reality—­”

“In reality she was an angel, eh?  To escape from dangerous comparisons I will admit, then, that I am clever.  That will make a difference.  But let us talk of you.  You are very—­how shall I say it?—­very eccentric.”

“Is that what your mother told you?”

“To tell the truth, she spoke of you as a great original.  But aren’t all Englishmen eccentric?  All except that one!” and the Countess pointed to poor Stanmer, in his corner of the sofa.

“Oh, I know just what he is,” I said.

“He’s as quiet as a lamb—­he’s like all the world,” cried the Countess.

“Like all the world—­yes.  He is in love with you.”

She looked at me with sudden gravity.  “I don’t object to your saying that for all the world—­but I do for him.”

“Well,” I went on, “he is peculiar in this:  he is rather afraid of you.”

Instantly she began to smile; she turned her face toward Stanmer.  He had seen that we were talking about him; he coloured and got up—­then came toward us.

“I like men who are afraid of nothing,” said our hostess.

“I know what you want,” I said to Stanmer.  “You want to know what the Signora Contessa says about you.”

Stanmer looked straight into her face, very gravely.  “I don’t care a straw what she says.”

“You are almost a match for the Signora Contessa,” I answered.  “She declares she doesn’t care a pin’s head what you think.”

“I recognise the Countess’s style!” Stanmer exclaimed, turning away.

“One would think,” said the Countess, “that you were trying to make a quarrel between us.”

I watched him move away to another part of the great saloon; he stood in front of the Andrea del Sarto, looking up at it.  But he was not seeing it; he was listening to what we might say.  I often stood there in just that way.  “He can’t quarrel with you, any more than I could have quarrelled with your mother.”

“Ah, but you did.  Something painful passed between you.”