"One would think," said the Countess, "that you were trying to make a
quarrel between us."

I watched him move away to another part of the great saloon; he stood in
front of the Andrea del Sarto, looking up at it. But he was not seeing
it; he was listening to what we might say. I often stood there in just
that way. "He can't quarrel with you, any more than I could have
quarrelled with your mother."

"Ah, but you did. Something painful passed between you."

"Yes, it was painful, but it was not a quarrel. I went away one day and
never saw her again. That was all."

The Countess looked at me gravely. "What do you call it when a man does
that?"

"It depends upon the case."

"Sometimes," said the Countess in French, "it's a _lachete_."

"Yes, and sometimes it's an act of wisdom."

"And sometimes," rejoined the Countess, "it's a mistake."

I shook my head. "For me it was no mistake."

She began to laugh again. "Caro Signore, you're a great original. What
had my poor mother done to you?"