“Yes, that’s true,” assented Quentin ingenuously.
“And why is it true, my friend?” asked the Countess. “Why, we of the proletariat are worth more than dukes and marquises, with all their ceremonies and fripperies. Where is the salt of the earth? Among the masses.... Why am I what I am? Because I married that bell-ox of an uncle of yours. The ambitions of my family annoyed me; they filled my head with titles and grandeurs; it’s one and the same thing whether you are a duke’s son, or the daughter of an olive merchant like me, or the son of an importer, like you.”
The Countess was growing in Quentin’s eyes. The sincere contempt that she felt for aristocratic things, seemed to him to be a stroke of superiority. As far as the question of birth, and family, and social position was concerned, Quentin was peevishly susceptible; and though he concealed these sentiments as best he could, they were often clearly apparent in him.
The Countess realized that this was one of Quentin’s vulnerable spots, and took delight in wounding him.
“They must sell a great many things in that store. It is a beautiful shop, very large and....”
“My dear lady,” said Quentin comically, when the annoyance that the woman’s words cost him commenced to take on an ironical and gay character—“You are very sarcastic, but I realize that you have a right to be.”
“So, you realize it?”
“Yes, my lady; and if you keep it up, I shall beg Pacheco to take my place in this delicate mission.”
“I will not allow you to leave me,” said the Countess mockingly.
“Well, if this turns out to be a long journey, I shall be found dead on the bottom of the coach.”