"
"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."
"Yes, it was painful, but it was not a quarrel. I went away one day and
never saw her again. That was all."
The Countess looked at me gravely. "What do you call it when a man does
that?"
"It depends upon the case."
"Sometimes," said the Countess in French, "it's a _lachete_."
"Yes, and sometimes it's an act of wisdom."
"And sometimes," rejoined the Countess, "it's a mistake."
I shook my head. "For me it was no mistake."
She began to laugh again. "Caro Signore, you're a great original. What
had my poor mother done to you?"
I looked at our young Englishman, who still had his back turned to us and
was staring up at the picture. "I will tell you some other time," I
said.
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