I met her a few days later in the Villa Borghese. I was one of many hundred people walking there, in the afternoon; her victoria was one of the long procession of carriages. She made her coachman draw up, and signed to me to come and speak with her.
“If I should get down and walk with you a bit, do you think you would be heart-broken?” she asked.
I offered her my hand, and helped her to alight. She had on the toque and jacket of Astrakhan in which I had first seen her, and she carried an Astrakhan muff. The fresh air had brought a beautiful soft colour to her cheeks; her hair glowed beautifully in the sunlight. As she walked beside me, I perceived that she was nearly as tall as I was, and I noticed the strong, fine, elastic contours of her figure. We turned away from the road, and walked on the grass, among the solemn old trees; and we talked... I can’t in the least remember of what—of nothings, very likely—only, I do remember that we talked and talked, and that I found our talk exceedingly agreeable. I remember, too, that at a given moment we passed a company of students from the German College, their scarlet cassocks flashing in the sun; and I remember how each of those poor priestlings stole an admiring glance at her from the corner of his eyes. But upon my calling her attention to the circumstance, though she couldn’t help smiling, she tried to frown, and reproved me. “Hush. You shouldn’t observe such things. You must never allow yourself to think lightly of the clergy.”
When I had conducted her back to her carriage, she said, “Can’t I set you down somewhere?” So I got in and drove with her, through the animated Roman streets, to the door of my lodgings. On the way, “You must come and dine with me some evening,” she said. “When will you come? Will you come on Wednesday? Quite quietly, you know.” And I assured her that I should be delighted to come on Wednesday.
But afterwards, when I was alone, I repeatedly caught myself thinking of her—thinking of her with enthusiasm. “She is a nice woman,” I thought. “She’s an awfully nice woman. Except my own mother, I believe she’s the nicest woman I have ever known.”
It may interest you to learn that I took occasion to tell her as much on Wednesday.
The other guests at her dinner had been Miss Belmont and the Contessa’s cousin, Monsignor Wilthorpe, a tall, iron-grey, frigid man, of forty-something; and they left together very early, Miss Belmont remarking, “People who are not in their first youth can’t afford to lose their beauty-sleep. Come, Monsignore, you must drive me home.” I feared it was my duty to leave directly after them, but upon my rising to do so the Contessa cried out, “What! Do you begrudge losing your beauty-sleep too? It’s not yet ten o’clock.” I was only too glad to stay.
We went from the great melancholy drawing-room, where we had taken our coffee, into her boudoir. I can’t tell you how cosy and charming and intimate it seemed, in the lamplight, with its bright colours, and with all her little personal possessions scattered about, her books, bibelots, writing-materials.
“Are you allowed to smoke?” she asked.