“Questa o quella per me pari sono.”
“But sing out loud,” said the Countess.
Quentin sang with his full voice:
“La costanza tiranna del core
detestiamo qual morbo crudele
sol chi vuole si servi fedele
non v’ha amor se non v’é libertá.”
And this last phrase, which Quentin launched forth with real enthusiasm, echoed in the damp and tepid night air....
“Is that a song of circumstances?” said the Countess with a laugh.
“Yes, my lady,” answered Quentin, without fully understanding what she meant.
“Listen ... another thing. Why don’t you make love to Remedios?”
“To Remedios! She is only a child.”
“She’s fourteen. How old are you?”