"
"Men are not judges of age, thank heaven. Women are. I _will_ have it
that your friend is nineteen. I should be too silly to take an
interest in him, were he less, if it were not motherly; and that
wouldn't be entertaining. You see, I am already twenty-two."
"You look eighteen," I said; and it was true. Widow as she was, it was
not possible to think of the Contessa as a responsible, grown woman.
"I told you that you were no judge of age. I was married at eighteen,
a widow at nineteen. _Dio mio!_ but it all seems a long time ago,
already! Lord Lane, you must introduce to me your friend the boy."
Here was a dilemma, but I got out of it by telling the truth, which is
usually, in the end, the best policy, many wise opinions to the
contrary notwithstanding. "You will laugh," I said, "but I don't know
his name."
"Not possible."
"True, nevertheless, like most things that seem impossible; nor does
he know mine, unless he heard you speak it driving up to the hotel. He
was at the door."
"Men are extraordinary! But, introduce him. You can manage somehow.
It's not his name I care for. It is those eyes. I shall invite him to
come and see me in Aix. Please bring him to me now. The Baron is
arranging about our rooms, and there is sure to be a misunderstanding
of some sort, as we had engaged for last night and did not come. The
Baronessa? Oh, never mind; she had better listen to her husband.
Pages:
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208