But for all her
spontaneity she's as subtle as a needle-point, and knows tremendously
well what she is about. If she is not a consummate coquette . . . What
had she in her head when she said that I should not have gone away?--Poor
little Stanmer didn't go away. I left him there at midnight.
12th.--I found him today sitting in the church of Santa Croce, into which
I wandered to escape from the heat of the sun.
In the nave it was cool and dim; he was staring at the blaze of candles
on the great altar, and thinking, I am sure, of his incomparable
Countess. I sat down beside him, and after a while, as if to avoid the
appearance of eagerness, he asked me how I had enjoyed my visit to Casa
Salvi, and what I thought of the _padrona_.
"I think half a dozen things," I said, "but I can only tell you one now.
She's an enchantress. You shall hear the rest when we have left the
church."
"An enchantress?" repeated Stanmer, looking at me askance.
He is a very simple youth, but who am I to blame him?
"A charmer," I said "a fascinatress!"
He turned away, staring at the altar candles.
"An artist--an actress," I went on, rather brutally.
He gave me another glance.
"I think you are telling me all," he said.
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