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“Seeing that you suppose me to be a–a great admirer of the Countess,” he said at last, “I am rather surprised at the freedom with which you speak of her.”

I confessed that I was surprised at it myself. “But it’s on account of the interest I take in you.”

“I am immensely obliged to you!” said the poor boy.

“Ah, of course you don’t like it. That is, you like my interest–I don’t see how you can help liking that; but you don’t like my freedom. That’s natural enough; but, my dear young friend, I want only to help you. If a man had said to me–so many years ago–what I am saying to you, I should certainly also, at first, have thought him a great brute. But after a little, I should have been grateful–I should have felt that he was helping me.”

“You seem to have been very well able to help yourself,” said Stanmer. “You tell me you made your escape.”

“Yes, but it was at the cost of infinite perplexity–of what I may call keen suffering. I should like to save you all that.”

“I can only repeat–it is really very kind of you.”

“Don’t repeat it too often, or I shall begin to think you don’t mean it.”

“Well,” said Stanmer, “I think this, at any rate–that you take an extraordinary responsibility in trying to put a man out of conceit of a woman who, as he believes, may make him very happy.”

I grasped his arm, and we stopped, going on with our talk like a couple of Florentines.

“Do you wish to marry her?”

He looked away, without meeting my eyes. “It’s a great responsibility,” he repeated.

“Before Heaven,” I said, “I would have married the mother! You are exactly in my situation.”

“Don’t you think you rather overdo the analogy?” asked poor Stanmer.

“A little more, a little less–it doesn’t matter. I believe you are in my shoes. But of course if you prefer it, I will beg a thousand pardons and leave them to carry you where they will.”

He had been looking away, but now he slowly turned his face and met my eyes. “You have gone too far to retreat; what is it you know about her?”

“About this one–nothing. But about the other–“

“I care nothing about the other!”

“My dear fellow,” I said, “they are mother and daughter–they are as like as two of Andrea’s Madonnas.”

“If they resemble each other, then, you were simply mistaken in the mother.”

I took his arm and we walked on again; there seemed no adequate reply to such a charge. “Your state of mind brings back my own so completely,” I said presently. “You admire her–you adore her, and yet, secretly, you mistrust her. You are enchanted with her personal charm, her grace, her wit, her everything; and yet in your private heart you are afraid of her.”

“Afraid of her?”

“Your mistrust keeps rising to the surface; you can’t rid yourself of the suspicion that at the bottom of all things she is hard and cruel, and you would be immensely relieved if some one should persuade you that your suspicion is right.”

Stanmer made no direct reply to this; but before we reached the hotel he said–“What did you ever know about the mother?”

“It’s a terrible story,” I answered.

He looked at me askance. “What did she do?”

“Come to my rooms this evening and I will tell you.”

He declared he would, but he never came. Exactly the way I should have acted!

14th.–I went again, last evening, to Casa Salvi, where I found the same little circle, with the addition of a couple of ladies. Stanmer was there, trying hard to talk to one of them, but making, I am sure, a very poor business of it. The Countess–well, the Countess was admirable. She greeted me like a friend of ten years, toward whom familiarity should not have engendered a want of ceremony; she made me sit near her, and she asked me a dozen questions about my health and my occupations.