of you."

"A good one, I hope."

She looked at me, laughing, and not answering this: it was just her
mother's trick.

"'My Englishman,' she used to call you--'_il mio Inglese_.'"

"I hope she spoke of me kindly," I insisted.

The Countess, still laughing, gave a little shrug balancing her hand to
and fro. "So-so; I always supposed you had had a quarrel. You don't
mind my being frank like this--eh?"

"I delight in it; it reminds me of your mother."

"Every one tells me that. But I am not clever like her. You will see
for yourself."

"That speech," I said, "completes the resemblance. She was always
pretending she was not clever, and in reality--"

"In reality she was an angel, eh? To escape from dangerous comparisons I
will admit, then, that I am clever. That will make a difference. But
let us talk of you. You are very--how shall I say it?--very eccentric."

"Is that what your mother told you?"

"To tell the truth, she spoke of you as a great original. But aren't all