“Madame,” she returned, still more icily, “you force upon me the opinion that there are circumstances under which it would be well to take an example by the grocer’s wives whom you despise so much.”

This remark, in which the Bourse-countess did not fail to hear the ring of the real aristocrat’s disdain, touched her in her tenderest point.  She tried to smile, but turned livid under her paint, and determined to return the stab on the spot.

“Don’t be angry, dearest countess, I was only joking, and you know as well as anybody that we Andalusians do not weigh our words too carefully.  By the bye, your French poet—­you know—­the one before you went to the seaside—­is simply beside himself.  You have thrown him over, it seems.  He comes to me every day, imploring me to say a good word for him to you.  He talks of challenging his fortunate successor, and goodness only knows what nonsense beside.”

Pilar turned very white.  She sprang to her feet.

“Shall I give a name to what you are doing?” she cried, her voice shaking.

“Don’t trouble,” returned her visitor, perfectly delighted, and rising as she spoke.  “I see, dearest countess, that you have one of your nervous days, so I had better come again another time.”

So saying she swept out of the room, throwing an offensively friendly nod at Wilhelm as she passed.  To the grinning Anne, who was waiting in the hall to see her to her carriage, she said: 

“Well, it looks serious this time—­the countess is over head and ears.  But it is quite true, he is much better-looking than any of the others.”

“Looks are not everything,” returned Anne sagely, and her contemptuous shrug conveyed plainly enough that she did not share her mistress’ taste.

Upstairs Pilar had rushed over to Wilhelm as soon as the countess disappeared, and hid her face on his breast.

Wilhelm pushed her gently away, and said sadly: 

“I have no right to reproach you, or, if I did, it would only be for not having been open with me, although you boast of your extreme truthfulness.”

“Wilhelm,” she entreated, clasping his hand in both of hers, “do not judge me hastily.  I might excuse myself, I might even deny it, but I am not capable of that.  When I told you the story of my life, I believed honestly that I had made you a full confession.  You shake your head?  Is it true—­I swear it is!  This man had entirely escaped my memory.  Why, I never loved him!  It was in some part a childish folly, but principally pity and perhaps little caprice on the part of a bored and lonely woman.  My heart had not the smallest part in it.  He was given up by the doctors, they thought he might die any day—­in such a case one gives oneself is one would offer him a cup of tisane—­the action of a Good Samaritan.”

“Your defense,” he said grimly, as he freed himself from her grasp, “is far worse than any reproach I might bring against you.  You never loved him?  Your heart had no part in this childish folly?  That makes it all the uglier—­then it becomes unpardonable.  Love alone could extenuate such a fault to some degree.”