He gave the bag to the servant, who was then in the room; sat down at the piano, and played the air of the lively Neapolitan street-song, “ La mia Carolina ,” twice over. His wife, who was usually the most deliberate of women in all her movements, made the tea as quickly as I could have made it myself⁠—finished her own cup in two minutes, and quietly glided out of the room.

I rose to follow her example⁠—partly because I suspected her of attempting some treachery upstairs with Laura, partly because I was resolved not to remain alone in the same room with her husband.

Before I could get to the door the Count stopped me, by a request for a cup of tea. I gave him the cup of tea, and tried a second time to get away. He stopped me again⁠—this time by going back to the piano, and suddenly appealing to me on a musical question in which he declared that the honour of his country was concerned.