Once again she pointed—but this time carelessly—in the direction of the mountain.
The man frowned.
“For heaven’s sake do not say ‘You Englishmen’ when I am by!” he cried. “I have nothing in common with Englishmen.”
“I have never met an Englishman who did not try to impress upon me that he was not as other Englishmen,” said the Marchesa. “The last one to say so to me was your wicked young Lord Byron. The Guicciola presented him to me at Genoa. Heavens! the old Count is more like an Englishman than Lord Byron! He can keep his eyes fast shut when it suits him. Enough; I said ‘You Englishmen,’ and he became red with anger. Droll! I had to ask forgiveness for having accused his lordship of being English. Oh, you are a nation of patriots.”
“You do not mean to keep up the acquaintance of Lord Byron, I would fain hope,” said Sir Percival with another frown.
Again the lady laughed.
“After that do not tell me that you are not an Englishman,” she said. “It is so very English to frown when the name of Lord Byron is mentioned—to give a young woman with a husband a solemn warning to beware of that wicked young noble, while all the time the one that utters the warning is doing his best to earn the reputation of the disreputable Byron. The English detest Byron; but if you want to flatter an Englishman to the farthest point, all you have to do is to tell him that you believe him to be a second Lord Byron. Never mind: I like the Lord Byron, and I like—yes, a little—another of his countrymen, though he is, I fear, very wicked.”
“Wicked?—wicked?” cried Sir Percival—he was plainly flattered. “What is it to be wicked?”
“Ah, do not ask me to give it a definition: I might say that it was to be you—you yourself.”
“If it is wicked to love—madly—blindly—then indeed I admit that——”