“You are almost a match for the Signora Contessa,” I answered. “She declares she doesn’t care a pin’s head what you think.”
“I recognise the Countess’s style!” Stanmer exclaimed, turning away.
“One would think,” said the Countess, “that you were trying to make a quarrel between us.”
I watched him move away to another part of the great saloon; he stood in front of the Andrea del Sarto, looking up at it. But he was not seeing it; he was listening to what we might say. I often stood there in just that way. “He can’t quarrel with you, any more than I could have quarrelled with your mother.”
“Ah, but you did. Something painful passed between you.”
“Yes, it was painful, but it was not a quarrel. I went away one day and never saw her again. That was all.”
The Countess looked at me gravely. “What do you call it when a man does that?”
“It depends upon the case.”
“Sometimes,” said the Countess in French, “it’s a lâcheté.”
“Yes, and sometimes it’s an act of wisdom.”