He was a middle-sized and slightly built man of thirty-five, with somewhat intellectual features; he had soft brown hair and moustaches and he wore glasses. What he said was warranted by the tone of mingled irritation and contempt, in which Teresa had spoken, even more than by the words, since some women think themselves privileged to insult men. But Teresa held out her hand to him.
‘Intruding? My dear friend, what an idea! You have come just at the right moment! Balduccio said something to me which I shall certainly not repeat, and I told him he was a coward. That is all. It is of no consequence!’
De Maurienne looked at Castiglione for some explanation, and evidently expecting one, but the officer was going away without giving one, which was probably his best course.
‘That is what it means to be an unprotected woman!’ cried Teresa, in a tone that announced approaching tears.
‘What do you mean, Donna Teresa?’ asked Castiglione sternly, turning back as he spoke.
‘What right have you to come and say such insulting things to me? In my own house, with no one to defend me!’ She was sobbing now, though there was a marked deficiency of tears. ‘Go!’ she almost screamed. ‘Go, I say! Never speak to me again!’
‘I can only believe you are quite mad,’ said Castiglione coldly.
Thereupon he bowed and went out. He had left the apartment and was slowly descending the marble stairs when he heard quick footsteps behind him. He stopped, looked up, and saw de Maurienne coming down; he knew what that meant, and waited.
‘This cannot end here, sir,’ said the Frenchman.