Emory spoke with such sincerity that the contessa looked at him with renewed interest.
“I knew that to be the case,” she said at length, “but I am glad to hear you say it. One so seldom hears a married woman championed so freely by a friend of the opposite sex.”
“Mrs. Armstrong needs no champion,” Emory hastened to add, feeling somewhat uncomfortable, for Helen’s sake, over the turn the conversation had taken. “But why should I not be permitted to express my admiration for you or for her just as I would for a beautiful painting or any other creation of a lesser artist?”
“Because ‘beautiful paintings’ do not have husbands,” replied the contessa, sagely, smiling at Emory’s compliment.
“BECAUSE ‘BEAUTIFUL PAINTINGS’ DO NOT POSSESS HUSBANDS,” REPLIED THE CONTESSA, SAGELY
“Since we are speaking of husbands,” Helen interrupted, thinking it time to make her hostess exchange places with her, “you promised me that I should meet yours this afternoon.”
“Oh no, my dear,” the contessa corrected. “I said ‘unless he was impossible,’ and that is just what he is to-day. Be thankful that your husband’s infirmity takes the form it does rather than the gout.”
“Tell me something about your villa,” suggested Helen, glancing around her. “All these places have romantic histories, and I am sure that this is no exception.”