The effect of speech like this, and more in a similar strain of frank corruptness, was to cleanse Wilfrid’s mind, and nerve his heart, and he denied that he had any desire to meet the Countess Ammiani, unless he could perform a service that would be agreeable to her.

The lady shrugged.  “Well, that is one way.  She has enemies, of course.”

Wilfrid begged for their names.

“Who are they not?” she replied.  “Chiefly women, it is true.”

He begged most earnestly for their names; he would have pleaded eloquently, but dreaded that the intonation of one in his low garb might be taken for a whine; yet he ventured to say that if the countess did imagine herself indebted to him in a small degree, the mention of two or three of the names of Countess Alessandra Ammiani’s enemies would satisfy him.

“Countess Lena von Lenkenstein, Countess Violetta d’Isorella, signorina Irma di Karski.”

She spoke the names out like a sum that she was paying down in gold pieces, and immediately rang the bell for her servant and carriage, as if she had now acquitted her debt.  Wilfrid bowed himself forth.  A resolution of the best kind, quite unconnected with his interests or his love, urged him on straight to the house of the Lenkensteins, where he sent up his name to Countess Lena.  After a delay of many minutes, Count Lenkenstein accompanied by General Pierson came down, both evidently affecting not to see him.  The General barely acknowledged his salute.

“Hey!  Kinsky!” the count turned in the doorway to address him by the title of his regiment; “here; show me the house inhabited by the Countess d’Isorella during the revolt.”

Wilfrid followed them to the end of the street, pointing his finger to the house, and saluted.

“An Englishman did me the favour—­from pure eccentricity, of course—­to save my life on that exact spot, General,” said the count.  “Your countrymen usually take the other side; therefore I mention it.”

As Wilfrid was directing his steps to barracks (the little stir to his pride superinduced by these remarks having demoralized him), Count Lenkenstein shouted:  “Are you off duty?  “Wilfrid had nearly replied that he was, but just mastered himself in time.  “No, indeed!” said the count, “when you have sent up your name to a lady.”  This time General Pierson put two fingers formally to his cap, and smiled grimly at the private’s rigid figure of attention.  If Wilfrid’s form of pride had consented to let him take delight in the fact, he would have seen at once that prosperity was ready to shine on him.  He nursed the vexations much too tenderly to give prosperity a welcome; and even when along with Lena, and convinced of her attachment, and glad of it, he persisted in driving at the subject which had brought him to her house; so that the veil of opening commonplaces, pleasant to a couple in their position, was plucked aside.  His business was to ask her why she was the enemy of Countess Alessandra Ammiani, and to entreat her that she should not seek to harm that lady.  He put it in a set speech.  Lena felt that it ought to have come last, not in advance of their reconciliation.  “I will answer you,” she said.  “I am not the Countess Alessandra Ammiani’s enemy.”