“And sometimes,” rejoined the Countess, “it’s a mistake.”
I shook my head. “For me it was no mistake.”
She began to laugh again. “Caro Signore, you’re a great original. What had my poor mother done to you?”
I looked at our young Englishman, who still had his back turned to us and was staring up at the picture. “I will tell you some other time,” I said.
“I shall certainly remind you; I am very curious to know.” Then she opened and shut her fan two or three times, still looking at me. What eyes they have! “Tell me a little,” she went on, “if I may ask without indiscretion. Are you married?”
“No, Signora Contessa.”
“Isn’t that at least a mistake?”
“Do I look very unhappy?”
She dropped her head a little to one side. “For an Englishman—no!”
“Ah,” said I, laughing, “you are quite as clever as your mother.”