I
asked him if his wife were there. I had to do that.
"Oh yes, she's in one of the other rooms. Come and make her
acquaintance; I want you to know her."
"You forget that I do know her."
"Oh no, you don't; you never did." And he gave a little significant
laugh.
I didn't feel like facing the _ci-devant_ Scarabelli at that moment; so I
said that I was leaving the house, but that I would do myself the honour
of calling upon his wife. We talked for a minute of something else, and
then, suddenly breaking off and looking at me, he laid his hand on my
arm. I must do him the justice to say that he looks felicitous.
"Depend upon it you were wrong!" he said.
"My dear young friend," I answered, "imagine the alacrity with which I
concede it."
Something else again was spoken of, but in an instant he repeated his
movement.
"Depend upon it you were wrong."
"I am sure the Countess has forgiven me," I said, "and in that case you
ought to bear no grudge. As I have had the honour to say, I will call
upon her immediately."
"I was not alluding to my wife," he answered. "I was thinking of your
own story."
"My own story?"
"So many years ago. Was it not rather a mistake?"
I looked at him a moment; he's positively rosy.
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