‘Then you think Schmidt is right about the old things?’ said Maria with a renewed interrogation in her tone.
Another pause, and several small puffs of smoke.
‘Maria,’ Montalto began, as if he had reached a conclusion, ‘you are not what people call a highly accomplished woman, but you have a great deal of sense.’
The Countess wondered what was coming, and answered by a preliminary and deprecating smile. Montalto often told her that in his opinion she was the most beautiful creature in the world; after such nonsense it was a relief to be called a sensible woman. She might not be even that, but at all events the statement was not likely to lead to one of those outbreaks of his passion for her which she dreaded.
‘Maria,’ he said, as if he were beginning over again, ‘I have great confidence in your judgment.’
‘But I know nothing about gardening or mediæval wells,’ she protested.
‘Possibly not, though you know vastly more about both than I do. I was brought up under the influence of the Spanish taste of the eighteenth century, and I like it. Ippolito Saracinesca says it is atrocious, and of course he knows. But I like it, nevertheless.’
‘At least, you have the courage of your opinion,’ said Maria, still completely in the dark, but feeling that she must say something.
‘That does not matter, for it is not the question,’ returned her husband. ‘We neither of us know anything about architecture, I am sure. But I shall be glad if you will go into this question with Schmidt, and then give me an opinion.’
‘It will be worthless.’