The Portrait of a LadyJames, Henry

Published: 1881Categorie(s): Fiction, RomanceSource: http://www.gutenberg.org

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About James:Henry James, son of theologian Henry James Sr. and brother

of the philosopher and psychologist William James and diaristAlice James, was an American-born author and literary critic ofthe late 19th and early 20th centuries. He spent much of hislife in Europe and became a British subject shortly before hisdeath. He is primarily known for novels, novellas and shortstories based on themes of consciousness and morality. Jamessignificantly contributed to the criticism of fiction, particularlyin his insistence that writers be allowed the greatest freedompossible in presenting their view of the world. His imaginativeuse of point of view, interior monologue and possibly unreliablenarrators in his own novels and tales brought a new depth andinterest to narrative fiction. An extraordinarily productivewriter, he published substantive books of travel writing, bio-graphy, autobiography and visual arts criticism. Source:Wikipedia

Also available on Feedbooks for James:• The Turn of the Screw (1898)• The Beast in the Jungle (1903)• Daisy Miller (1879)• Hawthorne (1879)• The Golden Bowl (1904)• A Bundle of Letters (1879)• The Bostonians (1886)• The Ambassadors (1903)• Wings of the Dove (1902)• The American Scene (1907)

Copyright: This work is available for countries where copy-right is Life+70 and in the USA.

Note: This book is brought to you by Feedbookshttp://www.feedbooks.comStrictly for personal use, do not use this file for commercialpurposes.

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Chapter 1Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life moreagreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known asafternoon tea. There are circumstances in which, whether youpartake of the tea or not—some people of course neverdo,—the situation is in itself delightful. Those that I have inmind in beginning to unfold this simple history offered an ad-mirable setting to an innocent pastime. The implements of thelittle feast had been disposed upon the lawn of an old Englishcountry-house, in what I should call the perfect middle of asplendid summer afternoon. Part of the afternoon had waned,but much of it was left, and what was left was of the finest andrarest quality. Real dusk would not arrive for many hours; butthe flood of summer light had begun to ebb, the air had grownmellow, the shadows were long upon the smooth, dense turf.They lengthened slowly, however, and the scene expressedthat sense of leisure still to come which is perhaps the chiefsource of one's enjoyment of such a scene at such an hour.From five o'clock to eight is on certain occasions a little etern-ity; but on such an occasion as this the interval could be onlyan eternity of pleasure. The persons concerned in it were tak-ing their pleasure quietly, and they were not of the sex whichis supposed to furnish the regular votaries of the ceremony Ihave mentioned. The shadows on the perfect lawn werestraight and angular; they were the shadows of an old man sit-ting in a deep wicker-chair near the low table on which the teahad been served, and of two younger men strolling to and fro,in desultory talk, in front of him. The old man had his cup in hishand; it was an unusually large cup, of a different pattern fromthe rest of the set and painted in brilliant colours. He disposedof its contents with much circumspection, holding it for a longtime close to his chin, with his face turned to the house. Hiscompanions had either finished their tea or were indifferent to

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their privilege; they smoked cigarettes as they continued tostroll. One of them, from time to time, as he passed, lookedwith a certain attention at the elder man, who, unconscious ofobservation, rested his eyes upon the rich red front of hisdwelling. The house that rose beyond the lawn was a structureto repay such consideration and was the most characteristicobject in the peculiarly English picture I have attempted tosketch.

It stood upon a low hill, above the river—the river being theThames at some forty miles from London. A long gabled frontof red brick, with the complexion of which time and the weath-er had played all sorts of pictorial tricks, only, however, to im-prove and refine it, presented to the lawn its patches of ivy, itsclustered chimneys, its windows smothered in creepers. Thehouse had a name and a history; the old gentleman taking histea would have been delighted to tell you these things: how ithad been built under Edward the Sixth, had offered a night'shospitality to the great Elizabeth (whose august person had ex-tended itself upon a huge, magnificent and terribly angular bedwhich still formed the principal honour of the sleeping apart-ments), had been a good deal bruised and defaced inCromwell's wars, and then, under the Restoration, repairedand much enlarged; and how, finally, after having been remod-elled and disfigured in the eighteenth century, it had passed in-to the careful keeping of a shrewd American banker, who hadbought it originally because (owing to circumstances too com-plicated to set forth) it was offered at a great bargain: boughtit with much grumbling at its ugliness, its antiquity, its incom-modity, and who now, at the end of twenty years, had becomeconscious of a real aesthetic passion for it, so that he knew allits points and would tell you just where to stand to see them incombination and just the hour when the shadows of its variousprotuberances which fell so softly upon the warm, weary brick-work—were of the right measure. Besides this, as I have said,he could have counted off most of the successive owners andoccupants, several of whom were known to general fame; do-ing so, however, with an undemonstrative conviction that thelatest phase of its destiny was not the least honourable. Thefront of the house overlooking that portion of the lawn withwhich we are concerned was not the entrance-front; this was in

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quite another quarter. Privacy here reigned supreme, and thewide carpet of turf that covered the level hill-top seemed butthe extension of a luxurious interior. The great still oaks andbeeches flung down a shade as dense as that of velvet curtains;and the place was furnished, like a room, with cushioned seats,with rich-coloured rugs, with the books and papers that layupon the grass. The river was at some distance; where theground began to slope the lawn, properly speaking, ceased.But it was none the less a charming walk down to the water.

The old gentleman at the tea-table, who had come fromAmerica thirty years before, had brought with him, at the topof his baggage, his American physiognomy; and he had notonly brought it with him, but he had kept it in the best order,so that, if necessary, he might have taken it back to his owncountry with perfect confidence. At present, obviously, never-theless, he was not likely to displace himself; his journeys wereover and he was taking the rest that precedes the great rest.He had a narrow, clean-shaven face, with features evenly dis-tributed and an expression of placid acuteness. It was evidentlya face in which the range of representation was not large, sothat the air of contented shrewdness was all the more of a mer-it. It seemed to tell that he had been successful in life, yet itseemed to tell also that his success had not been exclusive andinvidious, but had had much of the inoffensiveness of failure.He had certainly had a great experience of men, but there wasan almost rustic simplicity in the faint smile that played uponhis lean, spacious cheek and lighted up his humorous eye as heat last slowly and carefully deposited his big tea-cup upon thetable. He was neatly dressed, in well-brushed black; but ashawl was folded upon his knees, and his feet were encased inthick, embroidered slippers. A beautiful collie dog lay upon thegrass near his chair, watching the master's face almost as ten-derly as the master took in the still more magisterialphysiognomy of the house; and a little bristling, bustling terrierbestowed a desultory attendance upon the other gentlemen.

One of these was a remarkably well-made man of five-and-thirty, with a face as English as that of the old gentleman Ihave just sketched was something else; a noticeably handsomeface, fresh- coloured, fair and frank, with firm, straight fea-tures, a lively grey eye and the rich adornment of a chestnut

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beard. This person had a certain fortunate, brilliant exception-al look—the air of a happy temperament fertilised by a highcivilisation—which would have made almost any observer envyhim at a venture. He was booted and spurred, as if he had dis-mounted from a long ride; he wore a white hat, which lookedtoo large for him; he held his two hands behind him, and in oneof them—a large, white, well-shaped fist—was crumpled a pairof soiled dog-skin gloves.

His companion, measuring the length of the lawn beside him,was a person of quite a different pattern, who, although hemight have excited grave curiosity, would not, like the other,have provoked you to wish yourself, almost blindly, in hisplace. Tall, lean, loosely and feebly put together, he had anugly, sickly, witty, charming face, furnished, but by no meansdecorated, with a straggling moustache and whisker. Helooked clever and ill—a combination by no means felicitous;and he wore a brown velvet jacket. He carried his hands in hispockets, and there was something in the way he did it thatshowed the habit was inveterate. His gait had a shambling,wandering quality; he was not very firm on his legs. As I havesaid, whenever he passed the old man in the chair he restedhis eyes upon him; and at this moment, with their facesbrought into relation, you would easily have seen they werefather and son. The father caught his son's eye at last and gavehim a mild, responsive smile.

"I'm getting on very well," he said."Have you drunk your tea?" asked the son."Yes, and enjoyed it.""Shall I give you some more?"The old man considered, placidly. "Well, I guess I'll wait and

see." He had, in speaking, the American tone."Are you cold?" the son enquired.The father slowly rubbed his legs. "Well, I don't know. I can't

tell till I feel.""Perhaps some one might feel for you," said the younger

man, laughing."Oh, I hope some one will always feel for me! Don't you feel

for me, Lord Warburton?"

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"Oh yes, immensely," said the gentleman addressed as LordWarburton, promptly. "I'm bound to say you look wonderfullycomfortable."

"Well, I suppose I am, in most respects." And the old manlooked down at his green shawl and smoothed it over hisknees. "The fact is I've been comfortable so many years that Isuppose I've got so used to it I don't know it."

"Yes, that's the bore of comfort," said Lord Warburton. "Weonly know when we're uncomfortable."

"It strikes me we're rather particular," his companionremarked.

"Oh yes, there's no doubt we're particular," Lord Warburtonmurmured. And then the three men remained silent a while;the two younger ones standing looking down at the other, whopresently asked for more tea. "I should think you would be veryunhappy with that shawl," Lord Warburton resumed while hiscompanion filled the old man's cup again.

"Oh no, he must have the shawl!" cried the gentleman in thevelvet coat. "Don't put such ideas as that into his head."

"It belongs to my wife," said the old man simply."Oh, if it's for sentimental reasons—" And Lord Warburton

made a gesture of apology."I suppose I must give it to her when she comes," the old

man went on."You'll please to do nothing of the kind. You'll keep it to cov-

er your poor old legs.""Well, you mustn't abuse my legs," said the old man. "I guess

they are as good as yours.""Oh, you're perfectly free to abuse mine," his son replied,

giving him his tea."Well, we're two lame ducks; I don't think there's much

difference.""I'm much obliged to you for calling me a duck. How's your

tea?""Well, it's rather hot.""That's intended to be a merit.""Ah, there's a great deal of merit," murmured the old man,

kindly. "He's a very good nurse, Lord Warburton.""Isn't he a bit clumsy?" asked his lordship.

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"Oh no, he's not clumsy—considering that he's an invalidhimself. He's a very good nurse—for a sick-nurse. I call him mysick-nurse because he's sick himself."

"Oh, come, daddy!" the ugly young man exclaimed."Well, you are; I wish you weren't. But I suppose you can't

help it.""I might try: that's an idea," said the young man."Were you ever sick, Lord Warburton?" his father asked.Lord Warburton considered a moment. "Yes, sir, once, in the

Persian Gulf.""He's making light of you, daddy," said the other young man.

"That's a sort of joke.""Well, there seem to be so many sorts now," daddy replied,

serenely. "You don't look as if you had been sick, any way, LordWarburton."

"He's sick of life; he was just telling me so; going on fearfullyabout it," said Lord Warburton's friend.

"Is that true, sir?" asked the old man gravely."If it is, your son gave me no consolation. He's a wretched

fellow to talk to—a regular cynic. He doesn't seem to believe inanything."

"That's another sort of joke," said the person accused ofcynicism.

"It's because his health is so poor," his father explained toLord Warburton. "It affects his mind and colours his way oflooking at things; he seems to feel as if he had never had achance. But it's almost entirely theoretical, you know; itdoesn't seem to affect his spirits. I've hardly ever seen himwhen he wasn't cheerful—about as he is at present. He oftencheers me up."

The young man so described looked at Lord Warburton andlaughed. "Is it a glowing eulogy or an accusation of levity?Should you like me to carry out my theories, daddy?"

"By Jove, we should see some queer things!" cried LordWarburton.

"I hope you haven't taken up that sort of tone," said the oldman.

"Warburton's tone is worse than mine; he pretends to bebored. I'm not in the least bored; I find life only toointeresting."

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"Ah, too interesting; you shouldn't allow it to be that, youknow!"

"I'm never bored when I come here," said Lord Warburton."One gets such uncommonly good talk."

"Is that another sort of joke?" asked the old man. "You've noexcuse for being bored anywhere. When I was your age I hadnever heard of such a thing."

"You must have developed very late.""No, I developed very quick; that was just the reason. When I

was twenty years old I was very highly developed indeed. I wasworking tooth and nail. You wouldn't be bored if you hadsomething to do; but all you young men are too idle. You thinktoo much of your pleasure. You're too fastidious, and too indol-ent, and too rich."

"Oh, I say," cried Lord Warburton, "you're hardly the personto accuse a fellow-creature of being too rich!"

"Do you mean because I'm a banker?" asked the old man."Because of that, if you like; and because you have—haven't

you?—such unlimited means.""He isn't very rich," the other young man mercifully pleaded.

"He has given away an immense deal of money.""Well, I suppose it was his own," said Lord Warburton; "and

in that case could there be a better proof of wealth? Let not apublic benefactor talk of one's being too fond of pleasure."

"Daddy's very fond of pleasure—of other people's."The old man shook his head. "I don't pretend to have contrib-

uted anything to the amusement of my contemporaries.""My dear father, you're too modest!""That's a kind of joke, sir," said Lord Warburton."You young men have too many jokes. When there are no

jokes you've nothing left.""Fortunately there are always more jokes," the ugly young

man remarked."I don't believe it—I believe things are getting more serious.

You young men will find that out.""The increasing seriousness of things, then that's the great

opportunity of jokes.""They'll have to be grim jokes," said the old man. "I'm con-

vinced there will be great changes, and not all for the better."

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"I quite agree with you, sir," Lord Warburton declared. "I'mvery sure there will be great changes, and that all sorts ofqueer things will happen. That's why I find so much difficultyin applying your advice; you know you told me the other daythat I ought to 'take hold' of something. One hesitates to takehold of a thing that may the next moment be knocked sky-high."

"You ought to take hold of a pretty woman," said his compan-ion. "He's trying hard to fall in love," he added, by way of ex-planation, to his father.

"The pretty women themselves may be sent flying!" LordWarburton exclaimed.

"No, no, they'll be firm," the old man rejoined; "they'll not beaffected by the social and political changes I just referred to."

"You mean they won't be abolished? Very well, then, I'll layhands on one as soon as possible and tie her round my neck asa life-preserver."

"The ladies will save us," said the old man; "that is the best ofthem will—for I make a difference between them. Make up to agood one and marry her, and your life will become much moreinteresting."

A momentary silence marked perhaps on the part of his aud-itors a sense of the magnanimity of this speech, for it was asecret neither for his son nor for his visitor that his own experi-ment in matrimony had not been a happy one. As he said,however, he made a difference; and these words may havebeen intended as a confession of personal error; though ofcourse it was not in place for either of his companions to re-mark that apparently the lady of his choice had not been one ofthe best.

"If I marry an interesting woman I shall be interested: is thatwhat you say?" Lord Warburton asked. "I'm not at all keenabout marrying—your son misrepresented me; but there's noknowing what an interesting woman might do with me."

"I should like to see your idea of an interesting woman," saidhis friend.

"My dear fellow, you can't see ideas—especially such highlyethereal ones as mine. If I could only see it myself—that wouldbe a great step in advance."

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"Well, you may fall in love with whomsoever you please; butyou mustn't fall in love with my niece," said the old man.

His son broke into a laugh. "He'll think you mean that as aprovocation! My dear father, you've lived with the English forthirty years, and you've picked up a good many of the thingsthey say. But you've never learned the things they don't say!"

"I say what I please," the old man returned with all hisserenity.

"I haven't the honour of knowing your niece," Lord Warbur-ton said. "I think it's the first time I've heard of her."

"She's a niece of my wife's; Mrs. Touchett brings her toEngland."

Then young Mr. Touchett explained. "My mother, you know,has been spending the winter in America, and we're expectingher back. She writes that she has discovered a niece and thatshe has invited her to come out with her."

"I see,—very kind of her," said Lord Warburton. Is the younglady interesting?"

"We hardly know more about her than you; my mother hasnot gone into details. She chiefly communicates with us bymeans of telegrams, and her telegrams are rather inscrutable.They say women don't know how to write them, but my motherhas thoroughly mastered the art of condensation. 'Tired Amer-ica, hot weather awful, return England with niece, first steam-er decent cabin.' That's the sort of message we get fromher—that was the last that came. But there had been anotherbefore, which I think contained the first mention of the niece.'Changed hotel, very bad, impudent clerk, address here. Takensister's girl, died last year, go to Europe, two sisters, quite in-dependent.' Over that my father and I have scarcely stoppedpuzzling; it seems to admit of so many interpretations."

"There's one thing very clear in it," said the old man; "shehas given the hotel-clerk a dressing."

"I'm not sure even of that, since he has driven her from thefield. We thought at first that the sister mentioned might bethe sister of the clerk; but the subsequent mention of a nieceseems to prove that the allusion is to one of my aunts. Thenthere was a question as to whose the two other sisters were;they are probably two of my late aunt's daughters. But who's'quite independent,' and in what sense is the term used?—that

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point's not yet settled. Does the expression apply more particu-larly to the young lady my mother has adopted, or does it char-acterise her sisters equally?—and is it used in a moral or in afinancial sense? Does it mean that they've been left well off, orthat they wish to be under no obligations? or does it simplymean that they're fond of their own way?"

"Whatever else it means, it's pretty sure to mean that," Mr.Touchett remarked.

"You'll see for yourself," said Lord Warburton. "When doesMrs. Touchett arrive?"

"We're quite in the dark; as soon as she can find a decentcabin. She may be waiting for it yet; on the other hand she mayalready have disembarked in England."

"In that case she would probably have telegraphed to you.""She never telegraphs when you would expect it—only when

you don't," said the old man. "She likes to drop on me sud-denly; she thinks she'll find me doing something wrong. Shehas never done so yet, but she's not discouraged."

"It's her share in the family trait, the independence shespeaks of." Her son's appreciation of the matter was more fa-vourable. "Whatever the high spirit of those young ladies maybe, her own is a match for it. She likes to do everything for her-self and has no belief in any one's power to help her. Shethinks me of no more use than a postage-stamp without gum,and she would never forgive me if I should presume to go toLiverpool to meet her."

"Will you at least let me know when your cousin arrives?"Lord Warburton asked.

"Only on the condition I've mentioned—that you don't fall inlove with her!" Mr. Touchett replied.

"That strikes me as hard, don't you think me good enough?""I think you too good—because I shouldn't like her to marry

you. She hasn't come here to look for a husband, I hope; somany young ladies are doing that, as if there were no goodones at home. Then she's probably engaged; American girls areusually engaged, I believe. Moreover I'm not sure, after all,that you'd be a remarkable husband."

"Very likely she's engaged; I've known a good many Americ-an girls, and they always were; but I could never see that itmade any difference, upon my word! As for my being a good

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husband," Mr. Touchett's visitor pursued, "I'm not sure of thateither. One can but try!"

"Try as much as you please, but don't try on my niece,"smiled the old man, whose opposition to the idea was broadlyhumorous.

"Ah, well," said Lord Warburton with a humour broader still,"perhaps, after all, she's not worth trying on!"

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Chapter 2While this exchange of pleasantries took place between the twoRalph Touchett wandered away a little, with his usual slouch-ing gait, his hands in his pockets and his little rowdyish terrierat his heels. His face was turned toward the house, but hiseyes were bent musingly on the lawn; so that he had been anobject of observation to a person who had just made her ap-pearance in the ample doorway for some moments before heperceived her. His attention was called to her by the conduct ofhis dog, who had suddenly darted forward with a little volley ofshrill barks, in which the note of welcome, however, was moresensible than that of defiance. The person in question was ayoung lady, who seemed immediately to interpret the greetingof the small beast. He advanced with great rapidity and stoodat her feet, looking up and barking hard; whereupon, withouthesitation, she stooped and caught him in her hands, holdinghim face to face while he continued his quick chatter. His mas-ter now had had time to follow and to see that Bunchie's newfriend was a tall girl in a black dress, who at first sight lookedpretty. She was bareheaded, as if she were staying in thehouse—a fact which conveyed perplexity to the son of its mas-ter, conscious of that immunity from visitors which had forsome time been rendered necessary by the latter's ill-health.Meantime the two other gentlemen had also taken note of thenew-comer.

"Dear me, who's that strange woman?" Mr. Touchett hadasked.

"Perhaps it's Mrs. Touchett's niece—the independent younglady," Lord Warburton suggested. "I think she must be, fromthe way she handles the dog."

The collie, too, had now allowed his attention to be diverted,and he trotted toward the young lady in the doorway, slowlysetting his tail in motion as he went.

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"But where's my wife then?" murmured the old man."I suppose the young lady has left her somewhere: that's a

part of the independence."The girl spoke to Ralph, smiling, while she still held up the

terrier. "Is this your little dog, sir?""He was mine a moment ago; but you've suddenly acquired a

remarkable air of property in him.""Couldn't we share him?" asked the girl. "He's such a perfect

little darling."Ralph looked at her a moment; she was unexpectedly pretty.

"You may have him altogether," he then replied.The young lady seemed to have a great deal of confidence,

both in herself and in others; but this abrupt generosity madeher blush. "I ought to tell you that I'm probably your cousin,"she brought out, putting down the dog. "And here's another!"she added quickly, as the collie came up.

"Probably?" the young man exclaimed, laughing. "I supposedit was quite settled! Have you arrived with my mother?"

"Yes, half an hour ago.""And has she deposited you and departed again?""No, she went straight to her room, and she told me that, if I

should see you, I was to say to you that you must come to herthere at a quarter to seven."

The young man looked at his watch. "Thank you very much; Ishall be punctual." And then he looked at his cousin. "You'revery welcome here. I'm delighted to see you."

She was looking at everything, with an eye that denotedclear perception—at her companion, at the two dogs, at thetwo gentlemen under the trees, at the beautiful scene that sur-rounded her. "I've never seen anything so lovely as this place.I've been all over the house; it's too enchanting."

"I'm sorry you should have been here so long without ourknowing it."

"Your mother told me that in England people arrived veryquietly; so I thought it was all right. Is one of those gentlemenyour father?"

"Yes, the elder one—the one sitting down," said Ralph.The girl gave a laugh. "I don't suppose it's the other. Who's

the other?""He's a friend of ours—Lord Warburton."

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"Oh, I hoped there would be a lord; it's just like a novel!" Andthen, "Oh you adorable creature!" she suddenly cried, stoopingdown and picking up the small dog again.

She remained standing where they had met, making no offerto advance or to speak to Mr. Touchett, and while she lingeredso near the threshold, slim and charming, her interlocutorwondered if she expected the old man to come and pay her hisrespects. American girls were used to a great deal of defer-ence, and it had been intimated that this one had a high spirit.Indeed Ralph could see that in her face.

"Won't you come and make acquaintance with my father?" henevertheless ventured to ask. "He's old and infirm—he doesn'tleave his chair."

"Ah, poor man, I'm very sorry!" the girl exclaimed, immedi-ately moving forward. "I got the impression from your motherthat he was rather intensely active."

Ralph Touchett was silent a moment. "She hasn't seen himfor a year."

"Well, he has a lovely place to sit. Come along, little hound.""It's a dear old place," said the young man, looking sidewise

at his neighbour."What's his name?" she asked, her attention having again re-

verted to the terrier."My father's name?""Yes," said the young lady with amusement; "but don't tell

him I asked you."They had come by this time to where old Mr. Touchett was

sitting, and he slowly got up from his chair to introducehimself.

"My mother has arrived," said Ralph, "and this is MissArcher."

The old man placed his two hands on her shoulders, lookedat her a moment with extreme benevolence and then gallantlykissed her. "It's a great pleasure to me to see you here; but Iwish you had given us a chance to receive you."

"Oh, we were received," said the girl. "There were about adozen servants in the hall. And there was an old woman curt-seying at the gate."

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"We can do better than that—if we have notice!" And the oldman stood there smiling, rubbing his hands and slowly shakinghis head at her. "But Mrs. Touchett doesn't like receptions."

"She went straight to her room.""Yes—and locked herself in. She always does that. Well, I

suppose I shall see her next week." And Mrs. Touchett's hus-band slowly resumed his former posture.

"Before that," said Miss Archer. "She's coming down to din-ner— at eight o'clock. Don't you forget a quarter to seven," sheadded, turning with a smile to Ralph.

"What's to happen at a quarter to seven?""I'm to see my mother," said Ralph."Ah, happy boy!" the old man commented. "You must sit

down—you must have some tea," he observed to his wife'sniece.

"They gave me some tea in my room the moment I got there,"this young lady answered. "I'm sorry you're out of health," sheadded, resting her eyes upon her venerable host.

"Oh, I'm an old man, my dear; it's time for me to be old. But Ishall be the better for having you here."

She had been looking all round her again—at the lawn, thegreat trees, the reedy, silvery Thames, the beautiful old house;and while engaged in this survey she had made room in it forher companions; a comprehensiveness of observation easilyconceivable on the part of a young woman who was evidentlyboth intelligent and excited. She had seated herself and hadput away the little dog; her white hands, in her lap, were fol-ded upon her black dress; her head was erect, her eye lighted,her flexible figure turned itself easily this way and that, in sym-pathy with the alertness with which she evidently caught im-pressions. Her impressions were numerous, and they were allreflected in a clear, still smile. "I've never seen anything sobeautiful as this."

"It's looking very well," said Mr. Touchett. "I know the way itstrikes you. I've been through all that. But you're very beautifulyourself," he added with a politeness by no means crudely jocu-lar and with the happy consciousness that his advanced agegave him the privilege of saying such things—even to youngpersons who might possibly take alarm at them.

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What degree of alarm this young person took need not be ex-actly measured; she instantly rose, however, with a blushwhich was not a refutation. "Oh yes, of course I'm lovely!" shereturned with a quick laugh. "How old is your house? Is itElizabethan?"

"It's early Tudor," said Ralph Touchett.She turned toward him, watching his face. "Early Tudor?

How very delightful! And I suppose there are a great manyothers."

"There are many much better ones.""Don't say that, my son!" the old man protested. "There's

nothing better than this.""I've got a very good one; I think in some respects it's rather

better," said Lord Warburton, who as yet had not spoken, butwho had kept an attentive eye upon Miss Archer. He slightlyinclined himself, smiling; he had an excellent manner with wo-men. The girl appreciated it in an instant; she had not forgot-ten that this was Lord Warburton. "I should like very much toshow it to you," he added.

"Don't believe him," cried the old man; "don't look at it! It's awretched old barrack—not to be compared with this."

"I don't know—I can't judge," said the girl, smiling at LordWarburton.

In this discussion Ralph Touchett took no interest whatever;he stood with his hands in his pockets, looking greatly as if heshould like to renew his conversation with his new-foundcousin.

"Are you very fond of dogs?" he enquired by way of begin-ning. He seemed to recognise that it was an awkward begin-ning for a clever man.

"Very fond of them indeed.""You must keep the terrier, you know," he went on, still

awkwardly."I'll keep him while I'm here, with pleasure.""That will be for a long time, I hope.""You're very kind. I hardly know. My aunt must settle that.""I'll settle it with her—at a quarter to seven." And Ralph

looked at his watch again."I'm glad to be here at all," said the girl."I don't believe you allow things to be settled for you."

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"Oh yes; if they're settled as I like them.""I shall settle this as I like it," said Ralph. It's most unac-

countable that we should never have known you.""I was there—you had only to come and see me.""There? Where do you mean?""In the United States: in New York and Albany and other

American places.""I've been there—all over, but I never saw you. I can't make

it out."Miss Archer just hesitated. "It was because there had been

some disagreement between your mother and my father, aftermy mother's death, which took place when I was a child. Inconsequence of it we never expected to see you."

"Ah, but I don't embrace all my mother's quarrels—heavenforbid!" the young man cried. "You've lately lost your father?"he went on more gravely.

"Yes; more than a year ago. After that my aunt was very kindto me; she came to see me and proposed that I should comewith her to Europe."

"I see," said Ralph. "She has adopted you.""Adopted me?" The girl stared, and her blush came back to

her, together with a momentary look of pain which gave her in-terlocutor some alarm. He had underestimated the effect of hiswords. Lord Warburton, who appeared constantly desirous of anearer view of Miss Archer, strolled toward the two cousins atthe moment, and as he did so she rested her wider eyes onhim.

"Oh no; she has not adopted me. I'm not a candidate foradoption."

"I beg a thousand pardons," Ralph murmured. "I meant—Imeant—" He hardly knew what he meant.

"You meant she has taken me up. Yes; she likes to takepeople up. She has been very kind to me; but," she added witha certain visible eagerness of desire to be explicit, "I'm veryfond of my liberty."

"Are you talking about Mrs. Touchett?" the old man calledout from his chair. "Come here, my dear, and tell me about her.I'm always thankful for information."

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The girl hesitated again, smiling. "She's really very benevol-ent," she answered; after which she went over to her uncle,whose mirth was excited by her words.

Lord Warburton was left standing with Ralph Touchett, towhom in a moment he said: "You wished a while ago to see myidea of an interesting woman. There it is!"

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Chapter 3Mrs. Touchett was certainly a person of many oddities, ofwhich her behaviour on returning to her husband's house aftermany months was a noticeable specimen. She had her own wayof doing all that she did, and this is the simplest description ofa character which, although by no means without liberal mo-tions, rarely succeeded in giving an impression of suavity. Mrs.Touchett might do a great deal of good, but she never pleased.This way of her own, of which she was so fond, was not intrins-ically offensive—it was just unmistakeably distinguished fromthe ways of others. The edges of her conduct were so veryclear-cut that for susceptible persons it sometimes had a knife-like effect. That hard fineness came out in her deportment dur-ing the first hours of her return from America, under circum-stances in which it might have seemed that her first act wouldhave been to exchange greetings with her husband and son.Mrs. Touchett, for reasons which she deemed excellent, alwaysretired on such occasions into impenetrable seclusion, postpon-ing the more sentimental ceremony until she had repaired thedisorder of dress with a completeness which had the less reas-on to be of high importance as neither beauty nor vanity wereconcerned in it. She was a plain-faced old woman, withoutgraces and without any great elegance, but with an extremerespect for her own motives. She was usually prepared to ex-plain these—when the explanation was asked as a favour; andin such a case they proved totally different from those that hadbeen attributed to her. She was virtually separated from herhusband, but she appeared to perceive nothing irregular in thesituation. It had become clear, at an early stage of their com-munity, that they should never desire the same thing at thesame moment, and this appearance had prompted her to res-cue disagreement from the vulgar realm of accident. She didwhat she could to erect it into a law—a much more edifying

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aspect of it—by going to live in Florence, where she bought ahouse and established herself; and by leaving her husband totake care of the English branch of his bank. This arrangementgreatly pleased her; it was so felicitously definite. It struck herhusband in the same light, in a foggy square in London, whereit was at times the most definite fact he discerned; but hewould have preferred that such unnatural things should have agreater vagueness. To agree to disagree had cost him an effort;he was ready to agree to almost anything but that, and saw noreason why either assent or dissent should be so terribly con-sistent. Mrs. Touchett indulged in no regrets nor speculations,and usually came once a year to spend a month with her hus-band, a period during which she apparently took pains to con-vince him that she had adopted the right system. She was notfond of the English style of life, and had three or four reasonsfor it to which she currently alluded; they bore upon minorpoints of that ancient order, but for Mrs. Touchett they amplyjustified non-residence. She detested bread-sauce, which, asshe said, looked like a poultice and tasted like soap; she objec-ted to the consumption of beer by her maid-servants; and sheaffirmed that the British laundress (Mrs. Touchett was veryparticular about the appearance of her linen) was not a mis-tress of her art. At fixed intervals she paid a visit to her owncountry; but this last had been longer than any of itspredecessors.

She had taken up her niece—there was little doubt of that.One wet afternoon, some four months earlier than the occur-rence lately narrated, this young lady had been seated alonewith a book. To say she was so occupied is to say that hersolitude did not press upon her; for her love of knowledge hada fertilising quality and her imagination was strong. There wasat this time, however, a want of fresh taste in her situationwhich the arrival of an unexpected visitor did much to correct.The visitor had not been announced; the girl heard her at lastwalking about the adjoining room. It was in an old house at Al-bany, a large, square, double house, with a notice of sale in thewindows of one of the lower apartments. There were two en-trances, one of which had long been out of use but had neverbeen removed. They were exactly alike—large white doors,with an arched frame and wide side-lights, perched upon little

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"stoops" of red stone, which descended sidewise to the brickpavement of the street. The two houses together formed asingle dwelling, the party-wall having been removed and therooms placed in communication. These rooms, above-stairs,were extremely numerous, and were painted all over exactlyalike, in a yellowish white which had grown sallow with time.On the third floor there was a sort of arched passage, connect-ing the two sides of the house, which Isabel and her sistersused in their childhood to call the tunnel and which, though itwas short and well lighted, always seemed to the girl to bestrange and lonely, especially on winter afternoons. She hadbeen in the house, at different periods, as a child; in those daysher grandmother lived there. Then there had been an absenceof ten years, followed by a return to Albany before her father'sdeath. Her grandmother, old Mrs. Archer, had exercised,chiefly within the limits of the family, a large hospitality in theearly period, and the little girls often spent weeks under herroof— weeks of which Isabel had the happiest memory. Themanner of life was different from that of her ownhome—larger, more plentiful, practically more festal; the dis-cipline of the nursery was delightfully vague and the opportun-ity of listening to the conversation of one's elders (which withIsabel was a highly-valued pleasure) almost unbounded. Therewas a constant coming and going; her grandmother's sons anddaughters and their children appeared to be in the enjoymentof standing invitations to arrive and remain, so that the houseoffered to a certain extent the appearance of a bustling provin-cial inn kept by a gentle old landlady who sighed a great dealand never presented a bill. Isabel of course knew nothingabout bills; but even as a child she thought her grandmother'shome romantic. There was a covered piazza behind it, fur-nished with a swing which was a source of tremulous interest;and beyond this was a long garden, sloping down to the stableand containing peach-trees of barely credible familiarity. Isabelhad stayed with her grandmother at various seasons, but some-how all her visits had a flavour of peaches. On the other side,across the street, was an old house that was called the DutchHouse—a peculiar structure dating from the earliest colonialtime, composed of bricks that had been painted yellow,crowned with a gable that was pointed out to strangers,

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defended by a rickety wooden paling and standing sidewise tothe street. It was occupied by a primary school for children ofboth sexes, kept or rather let go, by a demonstrative lady ofwhom Isabel's chief recollection was that her hair was fastenedwith strange bedroomy combs at the temples and that she wasthe widow of some one of consequence. The little girl had beenoffered the opportunity of laying a foundation of knowledge inthis establishment; but having spent a single day in it, she hadprotested against its laws and had been allowed to stay athome, where, in the September days, when the windows of theDutch House were open, she used to hear the hum of childishvoices repeating the multiplication table—an incident in whichthe elation of liberty and the pain of exclusion were indistin-guishably mingled. The foundation of her knowledge was reallylaid in the idleness of her grandmother's house, where, as mostof the other inmates were not reading people, she had uncon-trolled use of a library full of books with frontispieces, whichshe used to climb upon a chair to take down. When she hadfound one to her taste— she was guided in the selection chieflyby the frontispiece— she carried it into a mysterious apartmentwhich lay beyond the library and which was called, tradition-ally, no one knew why, the office. Whose office it had been andat what period it had flourished, she never learned; it wasenough for her that it contained an echo and a pleasant mustysmell and that it was a chamber of disgrace for old pieces offurniture whose infirmities were not always apparent (so thatthe disgrace seemed unmerited and rendered them victims ofinjustice) and with which, in the manner of children, she hadestablished relations almost human, certainly dramatic. Therewas an old haircloth sofa in especial, to which she had confideda hundred childish sorrows. The place owed much of its mys-terious melancholy to the fact that it was properly enteredfrom the second door of the house, the door that had been con-demned, and that it was secured by bolts which a particularlyslender little girl found it impossible to slide. She knew thatthis silent, motionless portal opened into the street; if the side-lights had not been filled with green paper she might havelooked out upon the little brown stoop and the well-worn brickpavement. But she had no wish to look out, for this would haveinterfered with her theory that there was a strange, unseen

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place on the other side—a place which became to the child'simagination, according to its different moods, a region of de-light or of terror.

It was in the "office" still that Isabel was sitting on that mel-ancholy afternoon of early spring which I have just mentioned.At this time she might have had the whole house to choosefrom, and the room she had selected was the most depressedof its scenes. She had never opened the bolted door nor re-moved the green paper (renewed by other hands) from its side-lights; she had never assured herself that the vulgar street laybeyond. A crude, cold rain fell heavily; the spring-time was in-deed an appeal— and it seemed a cynical, insincere appeal—topatience. Isabel, however, gave as little heed as possible tocosmic treacheries; she kept her eyes on her book and tried tofix her mind. It had lately occurred to her that her mind was agood deal of a vagabond, and she had spent much ingenuity intraining it to a military step and teaching it to advance, to halt,to retreat, to perform even more complicated manoeuvres, atthe word of command. Just now she had given it marching or-ders and it had been trudging over the sandy plains of a historyof German Thought. Suddenly she became aware of a step verydifferent from her own intellectual pace; she listened a littleand perceived that some one was moving in the library, whichcommunicated with the office. It struck her first as the step ofa person from whom she was looking for a visit, then almostimmediately announced itself as the tread of a woman and astranger—her possible visitor being neither. It had an inquisit-ive, experimental quality which suggested that it would notstop short of the threshold of the office; and in fact the door-way of this apartment was presently occupied by a lady whopaused there and looked very hard at our heroine. She was aplain, elderly woman, dressed in a comprehensive waterproofmantle; she had a face with a good deal of rather violent point.

"Oh," she began, "is that where you usually sit?" She lookedabout at the heterogeneous chairs and tables.

"Not when I have visitors," said Isabel, getting up to receivethe intruder.

She directed their course back to the library while the visitorcontinued to look about her. "You seem to have plenty of other

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rooms; they're in rather better condition. But everything's im-mensely worn."

"Have you come to look at the house?" Isabel asked. "Theservant will show it to you."

"Send her away; I don't want to buy it. She has probablygone to look for you and is wandering about upstairs; shedidn't seem at all intelligent. You had better tell her it's nomatter." And then, since the girl stood there hesitating andwondering, this unexpected critic said to her abruptly: "I sup-pose you're one of the daughters?"

Isabel thought she had very strange manners. "It dependsupon whose daughters you mean."

"The late Mr. Archer's—and my poor sister's.""Ah," said Isabel slowly, "you must be our crazy Aunt Lydia!""Is that what your father told you to call me? I'm your Aunt

Lydia, but I'm not at all crazy: I haven't a delusion! And whichof the daughters are you?"

"I'm the youngest of the three, and my name's Isabel.""Yes; the others are Lilian and Edith. And are you the

prettiest?""I haven't the least idea," said the girl."I think you must be." And in this way the aunt and the niece

made friends. The aunt had quarrelled years before with herbrother-in-law, after the death of her sister, taking him to taskfor the manner in which he brought up his three girls. Being ahigh-tempered man he had requested her to mind her ownbusiness, and she had taken him at his word. For many yearsshe held no communication with him and after his death hadaddressed not a word to his daughters, who had been bred inthat disrespectful view of her which we have just seen Isabelbetray. Mrs. Touchett's behaviour was, as usual, perfectly de-liberate. She intended to go to America to look after her invest-ments (with which her husband, in spite of his great financialposition, had nothing to do) and would take advantage of thisopportunity to enquire into the condition of her nieces. Therewas no need of writing, for she should attach no importance toany account of them she should elicit by letter; she believed,always, in seeing for one's self. Isabel found, however, that sheknew a good deal about them, and knew about the marriage ofthe two elder girls; knew that their poor father had left very

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little money, but that the house in Albany, which had passed in-to his hands, was to be sold for their benefit; knew, finally, thatEdmund Ludlow, Lilian's husband, had taken upon himself toattend to this matter, in consideration of which the youngcouple, who had come to Albany during Mr. Archer's illness,were remaining there for the present and, as well as Isabelherself, occupying the old place.

"How much money do you expect for it?" Mrs. Touchettasked of her companion, who had brought her to sit in thefront parlour, which she had inspected without enthusiasm.

"I haven't the least idea," said the girl."That's the second time you have said that to me," her aunt

rejoined. "And yet you don't look at all stupid.""I'm not stupid; but I don't know anything about money.""Yes, that's the way you were brought up—as if you were to

inherit a million. What have you in point of fact inherited?""I really can't tell you. You must ask Edmund and Lilian;

they'll be back in half an hour.""In Florence we should call it a very bad house," said Mrs.

Touchett; "but here, I dare say, it will bring a high price. Itought to make a considerable sum for each of you. In additionto that you must have something else; it's most extraordinaryyour not knowing. The position's of value, and they'll probablypull it down and make a row of shops. I wonder you don't dothat yourself; you might let the shops to great advantage."

Isabel stared; the idea of letting shops was new to her. "Ihope they won't pull it down," she said; "I'm extremely fond ofit."

"I don't see what makes you fond of it; your father diedhere."

"Yes; but I don't dislike it for that," the girl rather strangelyreturned. "I like places in which things have happened—even ifthey're sad things. A great many people have died here; theplace has been full of life."

"Is that what you call being full of life?""I mean full of experience—of people's feelings and sorrows.

And not of their sorrows only, for I've been very happy here asa child."

"You should go to Florence if you like houses in which thingshave happened—especially deaths. I live in an old palace in

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which three people have been murdered; three that wereknown and I don't know how many more besides."

"In an old palace?" Isabel repeated."Yes, my dear; a very different affair from this. This is very

bourgeois."Isabel felt some emotion, for she had always thought highly

of her grandmother's house. But the emotion was of a kindwhich led her to say: "I should like very much to go toFlorence."

"Well, if you'll be very good, and do everything I tell you I'lltake you there," Mrs. Touchett declared.

Our young woman's emotion deepened; she flushed a littleand smiled at her aunt in silence. "Do everything you tell me? Idon't think I can promise that."

"No, you don't look like a person of that sort. You're fond ofyour own way; but it's not for me to blame you."

"And yet, to go to Florence," the girl exclaimed in a moment,"I'd promise almost anything!"

Edmund and Lilian were slow to return, and Mrs. Touchetthad an hour's uninterrupted talk with her niece, who found hera strange and interesting figure: a figure essentially—almostthe first she had ever met. She was as eccentric as Isabel hadalways supposed; and hitherto, whenever the girl had heardpeople described as eccentric, she had thought of them as of-fensive or alarming. The term had always suggested to hersomething grotesque and even sinister. But her aunt made it amatter of high but easy irony, or comedy, and led her to askherself if the common tone, which was all she had known, hadever been as interesting. No one certainly had on any occasionso held her as this little thin-lipped, bright-eyed, foreign-look-ing woman, who retrieved an insignificant appearance by a dis-tinguished manner and, sitting there in a well-worn water-proof, talked with striking familiarity of the courts of Europe.There was nothing flighty about Mrs. Touchett, but she recog-nised no social superiors, and, judging the great ones of theearth in a way that spoke of this, enjoyed the consciousness ofmaking an impression on a candid and susceptible mind. Isabelat first had answered a good many questions, and it was fromher answers apparently that Mrs. Touchett derived a high opin-ion of her intelligence. But after this she had asked a good

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many, and her aunt's answers, whatever turn they took, struckher as food for deep reflexion. Mrs. Touchett waited for the re-turn of her other niece as long as she thought reasonable, butas at six o'clock Mrs. Ludlow had not come in she prepared totake her departure.

"Your sister must be a great gossip. Is she accustomed tostaying out so many hours?"

"You've been out almost as long as she," Isabel replied; "shecan have left the house but a short time before you came in."

Mrs. Touchett looked at the girl without resentment; she ap-peared to enjoy a bold retort and to be disposed to be gracious."Perhaps she hasn't had so good an excuse as I. Tell her at anyrate that she must come and see me this evening at that horridhotel. She may bring her husband if she likes, but she needn'tbring you. I shall see plenty of you later."

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Chapter 4Mrs. Ludlow was the eldest of the three sisters, and was usu-ally thought the most sensible; the classification being in gen-eral that Lilian was the practical one, Edith the beauty and Isa-bel the "intellectual" superior. Mrs. Keyes, the second of thegroup, was the wife of an officer of the United States Engin-eers, and as our history is not further concerned with her itwill suffice that she was indeed very pretty and that sheformed the ornament of those various military stations, chieflyin the unfashionable West, to which, to her deep chagrin, herhusband was successively relegated. Lilian had married a NewYork lawyer, a young man with a loud voice and an enthusiasmfor his profession; the match was not brilliant, any more thanEdith's, but Lilian had occasionally been spoken of as a youngwoman who might be thankful to marry at all—she was somuch plainer than her sisters. She was, however, very happy,and now, as the mother of two peremptory little boys and themistress of a wedge of brown stone violently driven into Fifty-third Street, seemed to exult in her condition as in a bold es-cape. She was short and solid, and her claim to figure wasquestioned, but she was conceded presence, though notmajesty; she had moreover, as people said, improved since hermarriage, and the two things in life of which she was most dis-tinctly conscious were her husband's force in argument andher sister Isabel's originality. "I've never kept up with Isa-bel—it would have taken all my time," she had often remarked;in spite of which, however, she held her rather wistfully insight; watching her as a motherly spaniel might watch a freegreyhound. "I want to see her safely married—that's what Iwant to see," she frequently noted to her husband.

"Well, I must say I should have no particular desire to marryher," Edmund Ludlow was accustomed to answer in an ex-tremely audible tone.

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"I know you say that for argument; you always take the op-posite ground. I don't see what you've against her except thatshe's so original."

"Well, I don't like originals; I like translations," Mr. Ludlowhad more than once replied. "Isabel's written in a foreigntongue. I can't make her out. She ought to marry an Armenianor a Portuguese."

"That's just what I'm afraid she'll do!" cried Lilian, whothought Isabel capable of anything.

She listened with great interest to the girl's account of Mrs.Touchett's appearance and in the evening prepared to complywith their aunt's commands. Of what Isabel then said no reporthas remained, but her sister's words had doubtless prompted aword spoken to her husband as the two were making ready fortheir visit. "I do hope immensely she'll do something handsomefor Isabel; she has evidently taken a great fancy to her."

"What is it you wish her to do?" Edmund Ludlow asked."Make her a big present?"

"No indeed; nothing of the sort. But take an interest in her—sympathise with her. She's evidently just the sort of person toappreciate her. She has lived so much in foreign society; shetold Isabel all about it. You know you've always thought Isabelrather foreign."

"You want her to give her a little foreign sympathy, eh? Don'tyou think she gets enough at home?"

"Well, she ought to go abroad," said Mrs. Ludlow. "She's justthe person to go abroad."

"And you want the old lady to take her, is that it?""She has offered to take her—she's dying to have Isabel go.

But what I want her to do when she gets her there is to giveher all the advantages. I'm sure all we've got to do," said Mrs.Ludlow, "is to give her a chance."

"A chance for what?""A chance to develop.""Oh Moses!" Edmund Ludlow exclaimed. "I hope she isn't go-

ing to develop any more!""If I were not sure you only said that for argument I should

feel very badly," his wife replied. "But you know you love her.""Do you know I love you?" the young man said, jocosely, to

Isabel a little later, while he brushed his hat.

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"I'm sure I don't care whether you do or not!" exclaimed thegirl; whose voice and smile, however, were less haughty thanher words.

"Oh, she feels so grand since Mrs. Touchett's visit," said hersister.

But Isabel challenged this assertion with a good deal of seri-ousness. "You must not say that, Lily. I don't feel grand at all."

"I'm sure there's no harm," said the conciliatory Lily."Ah, but there's nothing in Mrs. Touchett's visit to make one

feel grand.""Oh," exclaimed Ludlow, "she's grander than ever!""Whenever I feel grand," said the girl, "it will be for a better

reason."Whether she felt grand or no, she at any rate felt different,

as if something had happened to her. Left to herself for theevening she sat a while under the lamp, her hands empty, herusual avocations unheeded. Then she rose and moved aboutthe room, and from one room to another, preferring the placeswhere the vague lamplight expired. She was restless and evenagitated; at moments she trembled a little. The importance ofwhat had happened was out of proportion to its appearance;there had really been a change in her life. What it would bringwith it was as yet extremely indefinite; but Isabel was in a situ-ation that gave a value to any change. She had a desire toleave the past behind her and, as she said to herself, to beginafresh. This desire indeed was not a birth of the present occa-sion; it was as familiar as the sound of the rain upon the win-dow and it had led to her beginning afresh a great many times.She closed her eyes as she sat in one of the dusky corners ofthe quiet parlour; but it was not with a desire for dozing forget-fulness. It was on the contrary because she felt too wide-eyedand wished to check the sense of seeing too many things atonce. Her imagination was by habit ridiculously active; whenthe door was not open it jumped out of the window. She wasnot accustomed indeed to keep it behind bolts; and at import-ant moments, when she would have been thankful to make useof her judgement alone, she paid the penalty of having givenundue encouragement to the faculty of seeing without judging.At present, with her sense that the note of change had beenstruck, came gradually a host of images of the things she was

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leaving behind her. The years and hours of her life came backto her, and for a long time, in a stillness broken only by theticking of the big bronze clock, she passed them in review. Ithad been a very happy life and she had been a very fortunateperson—this was the truth that seemed to emerge most vividly.She had had the best of everything, and in a world in which thecircumstances of so many people made them unenviable it wasan advantage never to have known anything particularly un-pleasant. It appeared to Isabel that the unpleasant had beeneven too absent from her knowledge, for she had gatheredfrom her acquaintance with literature that it was often asource of interest and even of instruction. Her father had keptit away from her—her handsome, much loved father, who al-ways had such an aversion to it. It was a great felicity to havebeen his daughter; Isabel rose even to pride in her parentage.Since his death she had seemed to see him as turning hisbraver side to his children and as not having managed to ig-nore the ugly quite so much in practice as in aspiration. Butthis only made her tenderness for him greater; it was scarcelyeven painful to have to suppose him too generous, too good-natured, too indifferent to sordid considerations. Many personshad held that he carried this indifference too far, especially thelarge number of those to whom he owed money. Of their opin-ions Isabel was never very definitely informed; but it may in-terest the reader to know that, while they had recognised inthe late Mr. Archer a remarkably handsome head and a verytaking manner (indeed, as one of them had said, he was alwaystaking something), they had declared that he was making avery poor use of his life. He had squandered a substantial for-tune, he had been deplorably convivial, he was known to havegambled freely. A few very harsh critics went so far as to saythat he had not even brought up his daughters. They had hadno regular education and no permanent home; they had beenat once spoiled and neglected; they had lived with nursemaidsand governesses (usually very bad ones) or had been sent tosuperficial schools, kept by the French, from which, at the endof a month, they had been removed in tears. This view of thematter would have excited Isabel's indignation, for to her ownsense her opportunities had been large. Even when her fatherhad left his daughters for three months at Neufchatel with a

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French bonne who had eloped with a Russian nobleman stay-ing at the same hotel— even in this irregular situation (an in-cident of the girl's eleventh year) she had been neitherfrightened nor ashamed, but had thought it a romantic episodein a liberal education. Her father had a large way of looking atlife, of which his restlessness and even his occasional incoher-ency of conduct had been only a proof. He wished his daugh-ters, even as children, to see as much of the world as possible;and it was for this purpose that, before Isabel was fourteen, hehad transported them three times across the Atlantic, givingthem on each occasion, however, but a few months' view of thesubject proposed: a course which had whetted our heroine'scuriosity without enabling her to satisfy it. She ought to havebeen a partisan of her father, for she was the member of histrio who most "made up" to him for the disagreeables he didn'tmention. In his last days his general willingness to take leaveof a world in which the difficulty of doing as one liked ap-peared to increase as one grew older had been sensibly modi-fied by the pain of separation from his clever, his superior, hisremarkable girl. Later, when the journeys to Europe ceased, hestill had shown his children all sorts of indulgence, and if hehad been troubled about money-matters nothing ever disturbedtheir irreflective consciousness of many possessions. Isabel,though she danced very well, had not the recollection of havingbeen in New York a successful member of the choreographiccircle; her sister Edith was, as every one said, so very muchmore fetching. Edith was so striking an example of successthat Isabel could have no illusions as to what constituted thisadvantage, or as to the limits of her own power to frisk andjump and shriek—above all with rightness of effect. Nineteenpersons out of twenty (including the younger sister herself)pronounced Edith infinitely the prettier of the two; but thetwentieth, besides reversing this judgement, had the entertain-ment of thinking all the others aesthetic vulgarians. Isabel hadin the depths of her nature an even more unquenchable desireto please than Edith; but the depths of this young lady's naturewere a very out-of-the-way place, between which and the sur-face communication was interrupted by a dozen capriciousforces. She saw the young men who came in large numbers tosee her sister; but as a general thing they were afraid of her;

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they had a belief that some special preparation was requiredfor talking with her. Her reputation of reading a great dealhung about her like the cloudy envelope of a goddess in anepic; it was supposed to engender difficult questions and tokeep the conversation at a low temperature. The poor girl likedto be thought clever, but she hated to be thought bookish; sheused to read in secret and, though her memory was excellent,to abstain from showy reference. She had a great desire forknowledge, but she really preferred almost any source of in-formation to the printed page; she had an immense curiosityabout life and was constantly staring and wondering. She car-ried within herself a great fund of life, and her deepest enjoy-ment was to feel the continuity between the movements of herown soul and the agitations of the world. For this reason shewas fond of seeing great crowds and large stretches of coun-try, of reading about revolutions and wars, of looking at histor-ical pictures—a class of efforts as to which she had often com-mitted the conscious solecism of forgiving them much badpainting for the sake of the subject. While the Civil War wenton she was still a very young girl; but she passed months ofthis long period in a state of almost passionate excitement, inwhich she felt herself at times (to her extreme confusion)stirred almost indiscriminately by the valour of either army. Ofcourse the circumspection of suspicious swains had never gonethe length of making her a social proscript; for the number ofthose whose hearts, as they approached her, beat only just fastenough to remind them they had heads as well, had kept herunacquainted with the supreme disciplines of her sex and age.She had had everything a girl could have: kindness, admira-tion, bonbons, bouquets, the sense of exclusion from none ofthe privileges of the world she lived in, abundant opportunityfor dancing, plenty of new dresses, the London Spectator, thelatest publications, the music of Gounod, the poetry of Brown-ing, the prose of George Eliot.

These things now, as memory played over them, resolvedthemselves into a multitude of scenes and figures. Forgottenthings came back to her; many others, which she had latelythought of great moment, dropped out of sight. The result waskaleidoscopic, but the movement of the instrument waschecked at last by the servant's coming in with the name of a

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gentleman. The name of the gentleman was Caspar Goodwood;he was a straight young man from Boston, who had knownMiss Archer for the last twelvemonth and who, thinking her themost beautiful young woman of her time, had pronounced thetime, according to the rule I have hinted at, a foolish period ofhistory. He sometimes wrote to her and had within a week ortwo written from New York. She had thought it very possiblehe would come in—had indeed all the rainy day been vaguelyexpecting him. Now that she learned he was there, neverthe-less, she felt no eagerness to receive him. He was the finestyoung man she had ever seen, was indeed quite a splendidyoung man; he inspired her with a sentiment of high, of rarerespect. She had never felt equally moved to it by any otherperson. He was supposed by the world in general to wish tomarry her, but this of course was between themselves. It atleast may be affirmed that he had travelled from New York toAlbany expressly to see her; having learned in the former city,where he was spending a few days and where he had hoped tofind her, that she was still at the State capital. Isabel delayedfor some minutes to go to him; she moved about the room witha new sense of complications. But at last she presented herselfand found him standing near the lamp. He was tall, strong andsomewhat stiff; he was also lean and brown. He was not ro-mantically, he was much rather obscurely, handsome; but hisphysiognomy had an air of requesting your attention, which itrewarded according to the charm you found in blue eyes of re-markable fixedness, the eyes of a complexion other than hisown, and a jaw of the somewhat angular mould which is sup-posed to bespeak resolution. Isabel said to herself that it be-spoke resolution to-night; in spite of which, in half an hour,Caspar Goodwood, who had arrived hopeful as well as resolute,took his way back to his lodging with the feeling of a man de-feated. He was not, it may be added, a man weakly to acceptdefeat.

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Chapter 5Ralph Touchett was a philosopher, but nevertheless heknocked at his mother's door (at a quarter to seven) with agood deal of eagerness. Even philosophers have their prefer-ences, and it must be admitted that of his progenitors his fath-er ministered most to his sense of the sweetness of filial de-pendence. His father, as he had often said to himself, was themore motherly; his mother, on the other hand, was paternal,and even, according to the slang of the day, gubernatorial. Shewas nevertheless very fond of her only child and had always in-sisted on his spending three months of the year with her. Ralphrendered perfect justice to her affection and knew that in herthoughts and her thoroughly arranged and servanted life histurn always came after the other nearest subjects of her soli-citude, the various punctualities of performance of the workersof her will. He found her completely dressed for dinner, butshe embraced her boy with her gloved hands and made him siton the sofa beside her. She enquired scrupulously about herhusband's health and about the young man's own, and, receiv-ing no very brilliant account of either, remarked that she wasmore than ever convinced of her wisdom in not exposing her-self to the English climate. In this case she also might have giv-en way. Ralph smiled at the idea of his mother's giving way,but made no point of reminding her that his own infirmity wasnot the result of the English climate, from which he absentedhimself for a considerable part of each year.

He had been a very small boy when his father, Daniel TracyTouchett, a native of Rutland, in the State of Vermont, came toEngland as subordinate partner in a banking-house wheresome ten years later he gained preponderant control. DanielTouchett saw before him a life-long residence in his adoptedcountry, of which, from the first, he took a simple, sane and ac-commodating view. But, as he said to himself, he had no

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intention of disamericanising, nor had he a desire to teach hisonly son any such subtle art. It had been for himself so verysoluble a problem to live in England assimilated yet unconver-ted that it seemed to him equally simple his lawful heir shouldafter his death carry on the grey old bank in the white Americ-an light. He was at pains to intensify this light, however, bysending the boy home for his education. Ralph spent severalterms at an American school and took a degree at an Americanuniversity, after which, as he struck his father on his return aseven redundantly native, he was placed for some three years inresidence at Oxford. Oxford swallowed up Harvard, and Ralphbecame at last English enough. His outward conformity to themanners that surrounded him was none the less the mask of amind that greatly enjoyed its independence, on which nothinglong imposed itself, and which, naturally inclined to adventureand irony, indulged in a boundless liberty of appreciation. Hebegan with being a young man of promise; at Oxford he distin-guished himself, to his father's ineffable satisfaction, and thepeople about him said it was a thousand pities so clever a fel-low should be shut out from a career. He might have had a ca-reer by returning to his own country (though this point isshrouded in uncertainty) and even if Mr. Touchett had beenwilling to part with him (which was not the case) it would havegone hard with him to put a watery waste permanentlybetween himself and the old man whom he regarded as hisbest friend. Ralph was not only fond of his father, he admiredhim—he enjoyed the opportunity of observing him. DanielTouchett, to his perception, was a man of genius, and thoughhe himself had no aptitude for the banking mystery he made apoint of learning enough of it to measure the great figure hisfather had played. It was not this, however, he mainly relished;it was the fine ivory surface, polished as by the English air,that the old man had opposed to possibilities of penetration.Daniel Touchett had been neither at Harvard nor at Oxford,and it was his own fault if he had placed in his son's hands thekey to modern criticism. Ralph, whose head was full of ideaswhich his father had never guessed, had a high esteem for thelatter's originality. Americans, rightly or wrongly, are commen-ded for the ease with which they adapt themselves to foreignconditions; but Mr. Touchett had made of the very limits of his

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pliancy half the ground of his general success. He had retainedin their freshness most of his marks of primary pressure; histone, as his son always noted with pleasure, was that of themore luxuriant parts of New England. At the end of his life hehad become, on his own ground, as mellow as he was rich; hecombined consummate shrewdness with the disposition super-ficially to fraternise, and his "social position," on which he hadnever wasted a care, had the firm perfection of an unthumbedfruit. It was perhaps his want of imagination and of what iscalled the historic consciousness; but to many of the impres-sions usually made by English life upon the cultivated strangerhis sense was completely closed. There were certain differ-ences he had never perceived, certain habits he had neverformed, certain obscurities he had never sounded. As regardsthese latter, on the day he had sounded them his son wouldhave thought less well of him.

Ralph, on leaving Oxford, had spent a couple of years in trav-elling; after which he had found himself perched on a highstool in his father's bank. The responsibility and honour of suchpositions is not, I believe, measured by the height of the stool,which depends upon other considerations: Ralph, indeed, whohad very long legs, was fond of standing, and even of walkingabout, at his work. To this exercise, however, he was obliged todevote but a limited period, for at the end of some eighteenmonths he had become aware of his being seriously out ofhealth. He had caught a violent cold, which fixed itself on hislungs and threw them into dire confusion. He had to give upwork and apply, to the letter, the sorry injunction to take careof himself. At first he slighted the task; it appeared to him itwas not himself in the least he was taking care of, but an unin-teresting and uninterested person with whom he had nothingin common. This person, however, improved on acquaintance,and Ralph grew at last to have a certain grudging tolerance,even an undemonstrative respect, for him. Misfortune makesstrange bedfellows, and our young man, feeling that he hadsomething at stake in the matter— it usually struck him as hisreputation for ordinary wit— devoted to his graceless chargean amount of attention of which note was duly taken and whichhad at least the effect of keeping the poor fellow alive. One ofhis lungs began to heal, the other promised to follow its

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example, and he was assured he might outweather a dozenwinters if he would betake himself to those climates in whichconsumptives chiefly congregate. As he had grown extremelyfond of London, he cursed the flatness of exile: but at the sametime that he cursed he conformed, and gradually, when hefound his sensitive organ grateful even for grim favours, heconferred them with a lighter hand. He wintered abroad, as thephrase is; basked in the sun, stopped at home when the windblew, went to bed when it rained, and once or twice, when ithad snowed overnight, almost never got up again.

A secret hoard of indifference—like a thick cake a fond oldnurse might have slipped into his first school outfit—came tohis aid and helped to reconcile him to sacrifice; since at thebest he was too ill for aught but that arduous game. As he saidto himself, there was really nothing he had wanted very muchto do, so that he had at least not renounced the field of valour.At present, however, the fragrance of forbidden fruit seemedoccasionally to float past him and remind him that the finest ofpleasures is the rush of action. Living as he now lived was likereading a good book in a poor translation—a meagre entertain-ment for a young man who felt that he might have been an ex-cellent linguist. He had good winters and poor winters, andwhile the former lasted he was sometimes the sport of a visionof virtual recovery. But this vision was dispelled some threeyears before the occurrence of the incidents with which thishistory opens: he had on that occasion remained later thanusual in England and had been overtaken by bad weather be-fore reaching Algiers. He arrived more dead than alive and laythere for several weeks between life and death. His convales-cence was a miracle, but the first use he made of it was to as-sure himself that such miracles happen but once. He said tohimself that his hour was in sight and that it behoved him tokeep his eyes upon it, yet that it was also open to him to spendthe interval as agreeably as might be consistent with such apreoccupation. With the prospect of losing them the simple useof his faculties became an exquisite pleasure; it seemed to himthe joys of contemplation had never been sounded. He was farfrom the time when he had found it hard that he should be ob-liged to give up the idea of distinguishing himself; an idea nonethe less importunate for being vague and none the less

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delightful for having had to struggle in the same breast withbursts of inspiring self-criticism. His friends at present judgedhim more cheerful, and attributed it to a theory, over whichthey shook their heads knowingly, that he would recover hishealth. His serenity was but the array of wild flowers niched inhis ruin.

It was very probably this sweet-tasting property of the ob-served thing in itself that was mainly concerned in Ralph'squickly-stirred interest in the advent of a young lady who wasevidently not insipid. If he was consideringly disposed,something told him, here was occupation enough for a succes-sion of days. It may be added, in summary fashion, that theimagination of loving—as distinguished from that of beingloved —had still a place in his reduced sketch. He had only for-bidden himself the riot of expression. However, he shouldn't in-spire his cousin with a passion, nor would she be able, evenshould she try, to help him to one. "And now tell me about theyoung lady," he said to his mother. "What do you mean to dowith her?"

Mrs. Touchett was prompt. "I mean to ask your father to in-vite her to stay three or four weeks at Gardencourt."

"You needn't stand on any such ceremony as that," said Ral-ph. "My father will ask her as a matter of course."

"I don't know about that. She's my niece; she's not his.""Good Lord, dear mother; what a sense of property! That's all

the more reason for his asking her. But after that—I mean afterthree months (for its absurd asking the poor girl to remain butfor three or four paltry weeks)—what do you mean to do withher?"

"I mean to take her to Paris. I mean to get her clothing.""Ah yes, that's of course. But independently of that?""I shall invite her to spend the autumn with me in Florence.""You don't rise above detail, dear mother," said Ralph. "I

should like to know what you mean to do with her in a generalway."

"My duty!" Mrs. Touchett declared. "I suppose you pity hervery much," she added.

"No, I don't think I pity her. She doesn't strike me as invitingcompassion. I think I envy her. Before being sure, however,give me a hint of where you see your duty."

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"In showing her four European countries—I shall leave herthe choice of two of them—and in giving her the opportunity ofperfecting herself in French, which she already knows verywell."

Ralph frowned a little. "That sounds rather dry—even allow-ing her the choice of two of the countries."

"If it's dry," said his mother with a laugh, "you can leave Isa-bel alone to water it! She is as good as a summer rain, anyday."

"Do you mean she's a gifted being?""I don't know whether she's a gifted being, but she's a clever

girl—with a strong will and a high temper. She has no idea ofbeing bored."

"I can imagine that," said Ralph; and then he added abruptly:"How do you two get on?"

"Do you mean by that that I'm a bore? I don't think she findsme one. Some girls might, I know; but Isabel's too clever forthat. I think I greatly amuse her. We get on because I under-stand her, I know the sort of girl she is. She's very frank, andI'm very frank: we know just what to expect of each other."

"Ah, dear mother," Ralph exclaimed, "one always knows whatto expect of you! You've never surprised me but once, andthat's to-day—in presenting me with a pretty cousin whose ex-istence I had never suspected."

"Do you think her so very pretty?""Very pretty indeed; but I don't insist upon that. It's her gen-

eral air of being some one in particular that strikes me. Who isthis rare creature, and what is she? Where did you find her,and how did you make her acquaintance?"

"I found her in an old house at Albany, sitting in a drearyroom on a rainy day, reading a heavy book and boring herselfto death. She didn't know she was bored, but when I left her nodoubt of it she seemed very grateful for the service. You maysay I shouldn't have enlightened he—I should have let heralone. There's a good deal in that, but I acted conscientiously; Ithought she was meant for something better. It occurred to methat it would be a kindness to take her about and introduce herto the world. She thinks she knows a great deal of it—like mostAmerican girls; but like most American girls she's ridiculouslymistaken. If you want to know, I thought she would do me

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credit. I like to be well thought of, and for a woman of my agethere's no greater convenience, in some ways, than an attract-ive niece. You know I had seen nothing of my sister's childrenfor years; I disapproved entirely of the father. But I alwaysmeant to do something for them when he should have gone tohis reward. I ascertained where they were to be found and,without any preliminaries, went and introduced myself. Thereare two others of them, both of whom are married; but I sawonly the elder, who has, by the way, a very uncivil husband.The wife, whose name is Lily, jumped at the idea of my takingan interest in Isabel; she said it was just what her sisterneeded—that some one should take an interest in her. Shespoke of her as you might speak of some young person of geni-us— in want of encouragement and patronage. It may be thatIsabel's a genius; but in that case I've not yet learned her spe-cial line. Mrs. Ludlow was especially keen about my taking herto Europe; they all regard Europe over there as a land of emig-ration, of rescue, a refuge for their superfluous population. Isa-bel herself seemed very glad to come, and the thing was easilyarranged. There was a little difficulty about the money-ques-tion, as she seemed averse to being under pecuniary obliga-tions. But she has a small income and she supposes herself tobe travelling at her own expense."

Ralph had listened attentively to this judicious report, bywhich his interest in the subject of it was not impaired. "Ah, ifshe's a genius," he said, "we must find out her special line. Is itby chance for flirting?"

"I don't think so. You may suspect that at first, but you'll bewrong. You won't, I think, in anyway, be easily right abouther."

"Warburton's wrong then!" Ralph rejoicingly exclaimed. "Heflatters himself he has made that discovery."

His mother shook her head. "Lord Warburton won't under-stand her. He needn't try."

"He's very intelligent," said Ralph; "but it's right he should bepuzzled once in a while."

"Isabel will enjoy puzzling a lord," Mrs. Touchett remarked.Her son frowned a little. What does she know about lords?""Nothing at all: that will puzzle him all the more."

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Ralph greeted these words with a laugh and looked out of thewindow. Then, "Are you not going down to see my father?" heasked.

"At a quarter to eight," said Mrs. Touchett.Her son looked at his watch. "You've another quarter of an

hour then. Tell me some more about Isabel." After which, asMrs. Touchett declined his invitation, declaring that he mustfind out for himself, "Well," he pursued, "she'll certainly do youcredit. But won't she also give you trouble?"

"I hope not; but if she does I shall not shrink from it. I neverdo that."

"She strikes me as very natural," said Ralph."Natural people are not the most trouble.""No," said Ralph; "you yourself are a proof of that. You're ex-

tremely natural, and I'm sure you have never troubled any one.It takes trouble to do that. But tell me this; it just occurs to me.Is Isabel capable of making herself disagreeable?"

"Ah," cried his mother, "you ask too many questions! Findthat out for yourself."

His questions, however, were not exhausted. "All this time,"he said, "you've not told me what you intend to do with her."

"Do with her? You talk as if she were a yard of calico. I shalldo absolutely nothing with her, and she herself will doeverything she chooses. She gave me notice of that."

"What you meant then, in your telegram, was that hercharacter's independent."

"I never know what I mean in my telegrams—especially thoseI send from America. Clearness is too expensive. Come down toyour father."

"It's not yet a quarter to eight," said Ralph."I must allow for his impatience," Mrs. Touchett answered.

Ralph knew what to think of his father's impatience; but, mak-ing no rejoinder, he offered his mother his arm. This put it inhis power, as they descended together, to stop her a momenton the middle landing of the staircase—the broad, low, wide-armed staircase of time-blackened oak which was one of themost striking features of Gardencourt. "You've no plan of mar-rying her?" he smiled.

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"Marrying her? I should be sorry to play her such a trick! Butapart from that, she's perfectly able to marry herself. She hasevery facility."

"Do you mean to say she has a husband picked out?""I don't know about a husband, but there's a young man in

Boston—!"Ralph went on; he had no desire to hear about the young

man in Boston. "As my father says, they're always engaged!"His mother had told him that he must satisfy his curiosity at

the source, and it soon became evident he should not want foroccasion. He had a good deal of talk with his young kinswomanwhen the two had been left together in the drawing-room. LordWarburton, who had ridden over from his own house, some tenmiles distant, remounted and took his departure before dinner;and an hour after this meal was ended Mr. and Mrs. Touchett,who appeared to have quite emptied the measure of theirforms, withdrew, under the valid pretext of fatigue, to their re-spective apartments. The young man spent an hour with hiscousin; though she had been travelling half the day she ap-peared in no degree spent. She was really tired; she knew it,and knew she should pay for it on the morrow; but it was herhabit at this period to carry exhaustion to the furthest pointand confess to it only when dissimulation broke down. A finehypocrisy was for the present possible; she was interested; shewas, as she said to herself, floated. She asked Ralph to showher the pictures; there were a great many in the house, most ofthem of his own choosing. The best were arranged in an oakengallery, of charming proportions, which had a sitting-room ateither end of it and which in the evening was usually lighted.The light was insufficient to show the pictures to advantage,and the visit might have stood over to the morrow. This sug-gestion Ralph had ventured to make; but Isabel looked disap-pointed—smiling still, however—and said: "If you please Ishould like to see them just a little." She was eager, she knewshe was eager and now seemed so; she couldn't help it. "Shedoesn't take suggestions," Ralph said to himself; but he said itwithout irritation; her pressure amused and even pleased him.The lamps were on brackets, at intervals, and if the light wasimperfect it was genial. It fell upon the vague squares of richcolour and on the faded gilding of heavy frames; it made a

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sheen on the polished floor of the gallery. Ralph took a candle-stick and moved about, pointing out the things he liked; Isabel,inclining to one picture after another, indulged in little exclam-ations and murmurs. She was evidently a judge; she had a nat-ural taste; he was struck with that. She took a candlestick her-self and held it slowly here and there; she lifted it high, and asshe did so he found himself pausing in the middle of the placeand bending his eyes much less upon the pictures than on herpresence. He lost nothing, in truth, by these wanderingglances, for she was better worth looking at than most worksof art. She was undeniably spare, and ponderably light, andproveably tall; when people had wished to distinguish her fromthe other two Miss Archers they had always called her the wil-lowy one. Her hair, which was dark even to blackness, hadbeen an object of envy to many women; her light grey eyes, alittle too firm perhaps in her graver moments, had an enchant-ing range of concession. They walked slowly up one side of thegallery and down the other, and then she said: "Well, now Iknow more than I did when I began!"

"You apparently have a great passion for knowledge," hercousin returned.

"I think I have; most girls are horridly ignorant.""You strike me as different from most girls.""Ah, some of them would—but the way they're talked to!"

murmured Isabel, who preferred not to dilate just yet on her-self. Then in a moment, to change the subject, "Please tellme—isn't there a ghost?" she went on.

"A ghost?""A castle-spectre, a thing that appears. We call them ghosts

in America.""So we do here, when we see them.""You do see them then? You ought to, in this romantic old

house.""It's not a romantic old house," said Ralph. "You'll be disap-

pointed if you count on that. It's a dismally prosaic one; there'sno romance here but what you may have brought with you."

"I've brought a great deal; but it seems to me I've brought itto the right place."

"To keep it out of harm, certainly; nothing will ever happento it here, between my father and me."

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Isabel looked at him a moment. "Is there never any one herebut your father and you?"

"My mother, of course.""Oh, I know your mother; she's not romantic. Haven't you

other people?""Very few.""I'm sorry for that; I like so much to see people.""Oh, we'll invite all the county to amuse you," said Ralph."Now you're making fun of me," the girl answered rather

gravely. "Who was the gentleman on the lawn when I arrived?""A county neighbour; he doesn't come very often.""I'm sorry for that; I liked him," said Isabel."Why, it seemed to me that you barely spoke to him," Ralph

objected."Never mind, I like him all the same. I like your father too,

immensely.""You can't do better than that. He's the dearest of the dear.""I'm so sorry he is ill," said Isabel."You must help me to nurse him; you ought to be a good

nurse.""I don't think I am; I've been told I'm not; I'm said to have too

many theories. But you haven't told me about the ghost," sheadded.

Ralph, however, gave no heed to this observation. "You likemy father and you like Lord Warburton. I infer also that youlike my mother."

"I like your mother very much, because—because—" And Isa-bel found herself attempting to assign a reason for her affec-tion for Mrs. Touchett.

"Ah, we never know why!" said her companion, laughing."I always know why," the girl answered. "It's because she

doesn't expect one to like her. She doesn't care whether onedoes or not."

"So you adore her—out of perversity? Well, I take greatlyafter my mother," said Ralph.

"I don't believe you do at all. You wish people to like you, andyou try to make them do it."

"Good heavens, how you see through one!" he cried with adismay that was not altogether jocular.

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"But I like you all the same," his cousin went on. "The way toclinch the matter will be to show me the ghost."

Ralph shook his head sadly. "I might show it to you, but you'dnever see it. The privilege isn't given to every one; it's not envi-able. It has never been seen by a young, happy, innocent per-son like you. You must have suffered first, have sufferedgreatly, have gained some miserable knowledge. In that wayyour eyes are opened to it. I saw it long ago," said Ralph.

"I told you just now I'm very fond of knowledge," Isabelanswered.

"Yes, of happy knowledge—of pleasant knowledge. But youhaven't suffered, and you're not made to suffer. I hope you'llnever see the ghost!"

She had listened to him attentively, with a smile on her lips,but with a certain gravity in her eyes. Charming as he foundher, she had struck him as rather presumptuous—indeed it wasa part of her charm; and he wondered what she would say. "I'mnot afraid, you know," she said: which seemed quite presump-tuous enough.

"You're not afraid of suffering?""Yes, I'm afraid of suffering. But I'm not afraid of ghosts. And

I think people suffer too easily," she added."I don't believe you do," said Ralph, looking at her with his

hands in his pockets."I don't think that's a fault," she answered. "It's not abso-

lutely necessary to suffer; we were not made for that.""You were not, certainly.""I'm not speaking of myself." And she wandered off a little."No, it isn't a fault," said her cousin. "It's a merit to be

strong.""Only, if you don't suffer they call you hard," Isabel

remarked.They passed out of the smaller drawing-room, into which

they had returned from the gallery, and paused in the hall, atthe foot of the staircase. Here Ralph presented his companionwith her bedroom candle, which he had taken from a niche."Never mind what they call you. When you do suffer they callyou an idiot. The great point's to be as happy as possible."

She looked at him a little; she had taken her candle andplaced her foot on the oaken stair. "Well," she said, "that's

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what I came to Europe for, to be as happy as possible. Good-night."

"Good-night! I wish you all success, and shall be very glad tocontribute to it!"

She turned away, and he watched her as she slowly ascen-ded. Then, with his hands always in his pockets, he went backto the empty drawing-room.

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Chapter 6Isabel Archer was a young person of many theories; her ima-gination was remarkably active. It had been her fortune to pos-sess a finer mind than most of the persons among whom her lotwas cast; to have a larger perception of surrounding facts andto care for knowledge that was tinged with the unfamiliar. It istrue that among her contemporaries she passed for a youngwoman of extraordinary profundity; for these excellent peoplenever withheld their admiration from a reach of intellect ofwhich they themselves were not conscious, and spoke of Isabelas a prodigy of learning, a creature reported to have read theclassic authors —in translations. Her paternal aunt, Mrs. Vari-an, once spread the rumour that Isabel was writing abook—Mrs. Varian having a reverence for books, and averredthat the girl would distinguish herself in print. Mrs. Varianthought highly of literature, for which she entertained that es-teem that is connected with a sense of privation. Her own largehouse, remarkable for its assortment of mosaic tables and dec-orated ceilings, was unfurnished with a library, and in the wayof printed volumes contained nothing but half a dozen novels inpaper on a shelf in the apartment of one of the Miss Varians.Practically, Mrs. Varian's acquaintance with literature was con-fined to The New York Interviewer; as she very justly said,after you had read the Interviewer you had lost all faith in cul-ture. Her tendency, with this, was rather to keep the Interview-er out of the way of her daughters; she was determined tobring them up properly, and they read nothing at all. Her im-pression with regard to Isabel's labours was quite illusory; thegirl had never attempted to write a book and had no desire forthe laurels of authorship. She had no talent for expression andtoo little of the consciousness of genius; she only had a generalidea that people were right when they treated her as if shewere rather superior. Whether or no she were superior, people

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were right in admiring her if they thought her so; for it seemedto her often that her mind moved more quickly than theirs, andthis encouraged an impatience that might easily be confoundedwith superiority. It may be affirmed without delay that Isabelwas probably very liable to the sin of self-esteem; she oftensurveyed with complacency the field of her own nature; shewas in the habit of taking for granted, on scanty evidence, thatshe was right; she treated herself to occasions of homage.Meanwhile her errors and delusions were frequently such as abiographer interested in preserving the dignity of his subjectmust shrink from specifying. Her thoughts were a tangle ofvague outlines which had never been corrected by the judge-ment of people speaking with authority. In matters of opinionshe had had her own way, and it had led her into a thousand ri-diculous zigzags. At moments she discovered she was grot-esquely wrong, and then she treated herself to a week of pas-sionate humility. After this she held her head higher than everagain; for it was of no use, she had an unquenchable desire tothink well of herself. She had a theory that it was only underthis provision life was worth living; that one should be one ofthe best, should be conscious of a fine organisation (shecouldn't help knowing her organisation was fine), should movein a realm of light, of natural wisdom, of happy impulse, of in-spiration gracefully chronic. It was almost as unnecessary tocultivate doubt of one's self as to cultivate doubt of one's bestfriend: one should try to be one's own best friend and to giveone's self, in this manner, distinguished company. The girl hada certain nobleness of imagination which rendered her a goodmany services and played her a great many tricks. She spenthalf her time in thinking of beauty and bravery and magnanim-ity; she had a fixed determination to regard the world as aplace of brightness, of free expansion, of irresistible action: sheheld it must be detestable to be afraid or ashamed. She had aninfinite hope that she should never do anything wrong. She hadresented so strongly, after discovering them, her mere errorsof feeling (the discovery always made her tremble as if she hadescaped from a trap which might have caught her andsmothered her) that the chance of inflicting a sensible injuryupon another person, presented only as a contingency, causedher at moments to hold her breath. That always struck her as

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the worst thing that could happen to her. On the whole, reflect-ively, she was in no uncertainty about the things that werewrong. She had no love of their look, but when she fixed themhard she recognised them. It was wrong to be mean, to be jeal-ous, to be false, to be cruel; she had seen very little of the evilof the world, but she had seen women who lied and who triedto hurt each other. Seeing such things had quickened her highspirit; it seemed indecent not to scorn them. Of course thedanger of a high spirit was the danger of inconsistency—thedanger of keeping up the flag after the place has surrendered;a sort of behaviour so crooked as to be almost a dishonour tothe flag. But Isabel, who knew little of the sorts of artillery towhich young women are exposed, flattered herself that suchcontradictions would never be noted in her own conduct. Herlife should always be in harmony with the most pleasing im-pression she should produce; she would be what she appeared,and she would appear what she was. Sometimes she went sofar as to wish that she might find herself some day in a difficultposition, so that she should have the pleasure of being as hero-ic as the occasion demanded. Altogether, with her meagreknowledge, her inflated ideals, her confidence at once innocentand dogmatic, her temper at once exacting and indulgent, hermixture of curiosity and fastidiousness, of vivacity and indiffer-ence, her desire to look very well and to be if possible evenbetter, her determination to see, to try, to know, her combina-tion of the delicate, desultory, flame-like spirit and the eagerand personal creature of conditions: she would be an easy vic-tim of scientific criticism if she were not intended to awaken onthe reader's part an impulse more tender and more purelyexpectant.

It was one of her theories that Isabel Archer was very fortu-nate in being independent, and that she ought to make somevery enlightened use of that state. She never called it the stateof solitude, much less of singleness; she thought such descrip-tions weak, and, besides, her sister Lily constantly urged her tocome and abide. She had a friend whose acquaintance she hadmade shortly before her father's death, who offered so high anexample of useful activity that Isabel always thought of her asa model. Henrietta Stackpole had the advantage of an admiredability; she was thoroughly launched in journalism, and her

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letters to the Interviewer, from Washington, Newport, theWhite Mountains and other places, were universally quoted.Isabel pronounced them with confidence "ephemeral," but sheesteemed the courage, energy and good-humour of the writer,who, without parents and without property, had adopted threeof the children of an infirm and widowed sister and was payingtheir school-bills out of the proceeds of her literary labour.Henrietta was in the van of progress and had clear-cut viewson most subjects; her cherished desire had long been to cometo Europe and write a series of letters to the Interviewer fromthe radical point of view—an enterprise the less difficult as sheknew perfectly in advance what her opinions would be and tohow many objections most European institutions lay open.When she heard that Isabel was coming she wished to start atonce; thinking, naturally, that it would be delightful the twoshould travel together. She had been obliged, however, to post-pone this enterprise. She thought Isabel a glorious creature,and had spoken of her covertly in some of her letters, thoughshe never mentioned the fact to her friend, who would not havetaken pleasure in it and was not a regular student of the Inter-viewer. Henrietta, for Isabel, was chiefly a proof that a womanmight suffice to herself and be happy. Her resources were ofthe obvious kind; but even if one had not the journalistic talentand a genius for guessing, as Henrietta said, what the publicwas going to want, one was not therefore to conclude that onehad no vocation, no beneficent aptitude of any sort, and resignone's self to being frivolous and hollow. Isabel was stoutly de-termined not to be hollow. If one should wait with the right pa-tience one would find some happy work to one's hand. Ofcourse, among her theories, this young lady was not without acollection of views on the subject of marriage. The first on thelist was a conviction of the vulgarity of thinking too much of it.From lapsing into eagerness on this point she earnestly prayedshe might be delivered; she held that a woman ought to be ableto live to herself, in the absence of exceptional flimsiness, andthat it was perfectly possible to be happy without the society ofa more or less coarse-minded person of another sex. The girl'sprayer was very sufficiently answered; something pure andproud that there was in her—something cold and dry an unap-preciated suitor with a taste for analysis might have called

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it—had hitherto kept her from any great vanity of conjectureon the article of possible husbands. Few of the men she sawseemed worth a ruinous expenditure, and it made her smile tothink that one of them should present himself as an incentiveto hope and a reward of patience. Deep in her soul—it was thedeepest thing there—lay a belief that if a certain light shoulddawn she could give herself completely; but this image, on thewhole, was too formidable to be attractive. Isabel's thoughtshovered about it, but they seldom rested on it long; after alittle it ended in alarms. It often seemed to her that shethought too much about herself; you could have made her col-our, any day in the year, by calling her a rank egoist. She wasalways planning out her development, desiring her perfection,observing her progress. Her nature had, in her conceit, acertain garden-like quality, a suggestion of perfume and mur-muring boughs, of shady bowers and lengthening vistas, whichmade her feel that introspection was, after all, an exercise inthe open air, and that a visit to the recesses of one's spirit washarmless when one returned from it with a lapful of roses. Butshe was often reminded that there were other gardens in theworld than those of her remarkable soul, and that there weremoreover a great many places which were not gardens atall—only dusky pestiferous tracts, planted thick with uglinessand misery. In the current of that repaid curiosity on which shehad lately been floating, which had conveyed her to this beauti-ful old England and might carry her much further still, she of-ten checked herself with the thought of the thousands ofpeople who were less happy than herself—a thought which forthe moment made her fine, full consciousness appear a kind ofimmodesty. What should one do with the misery of the world ina scheme of the agreeable for one's self? It must be confessedthat this question never held her long. She was too young, tooimpatient to live, too unacquainted with pain. She always re-turned to her theory that a young woman whom after all everyone thought clever should begin by getting a general impres-sion of life. This impression was necessary to prevent mistakes,and after it should be secured she might make the unfortunatecondition of others a subject of special attention.

England was a revelation to her, and she found herself as di-verted as a child at a pantomime. In her infantine excursions to

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Europe she had seen only the Continent, and seen it from thenursery window; Paris, not London, was her father's Mecca,and into many of his interests there his children had naturallynot entered. The images of that time moreover had grown faintand remote, and the old-world quality in everything that shenow saw had all the charm of strangeness. Her uncle's houseseemed a picture made real; no refinement of the agreeablewas lost upon Isabel; the rich perfection of Gardencourt atonce revealed a world and gratified a need. The large, lowrooms, with brown ceilings and dusky corners, the deep em-brasures and curious casements, the quiet light on dark, pol-ished panels, the deep greenness outside, that seemed alwayspeeping in, the sense of well-ordered privacy in the centre of a"property"—a place where sounds were felicitously accidental,where the tread was muffed by the earth itself and in the thickmild air all friction dropped out of contact and all shrillness outof talk—these things were much to the taste of our young lady,whose taste played a considerable part in her emotions. Sheformed a fast friendship with her uncle, and often sat by hischair when he had had it moved out to the lawn. He passedhours in the open air, sitting with folded hands like a placid,homely household god, a god of service, who had done hiswork and received his wages and was trying to grow used toweeks and months made up only of off-days. Isabel amused himmore than she suspected—the effect she produced upon peoplewas often different from what she supposed—and he frequentlygave himself the pleasure of making her chatter. It was by thisterm that he qualified her conversation, which had much of the"point" observable in that of the young ladies of her country, towhom the ear of the world is more directly presented than totheir sisters in other lands. Like the mass of American girls Isa-bel had been encouraged to express herself; her remarks hadbeen attended to; she had been expected to have emotions andopinions. Many of her opinions had doubtless but a slendervalue, many of her emotions passed away in the utterance; butthey had left a trace in giving her the habit of seeming at leastto feel and think, and in imparting moreover to her wordswhen she was really moved that prompt vividness which somany people had regarded as a sign of superiority. Mr.Touchett used to think that she reminded him of his wife when

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his wife was in her teens. It was because she was fresh andnatural and quick to understand, to speak—so many character-istics of her niece—that he had fallen in love with Mrs.Touchett. He never expressed this analogy to the girl herself,however; for if Mrs. Touchett had once been like Isabel, Isabelwas not at all like Mrs. Touchett. The old man was full of kind-ness for her; it was a long time, as he said, since they had hadany young life in the house; and our rustling, quickly-moving,clear-voiced heroine was as agreeable to his sense as thesound of flowing water. He wanted to do something for her andwished she would ask it of him. She would ask nothing butquestions; it is true that of these she asked a quantity. Heruncle had a great fund of answers, though her pressure some-times came in forms that puzzled him. She questioned him im-mensely about England, about the British constitution, theEnglish character, the state of politics, the manners and cus-toms of the royal family, the peculiarities of the aristocracy,the way of living and thinking of his neighbours; and in beg-ging to be enlightened on these points she usually enquiredwhether they corresponded with the descriptions in the books.The old man always looked at her a little with his fine dry smilewhile he smoothed down the shawl spread across his legs.

"The books?" he once said; "well, I don't know much aboutthe books. You must ask Ralph about that. I've always ascer-tained for myself—got my information in the natural form. Inever asked many questions even; I just kept quiet and tooknotice. Of course I've had very good opportunities—better thanwhat a young lady would naturally have. I'm of an inquisitivedisposition, though you mightn't think it if you were to watchme: however much you might watch me I should be watchingyou more. I've been watching these people for upwards ofthirty-five years, and I don't hesitate to say that I've acquiredconsiderable information. It's a very fine country on thewhole—finer perhaps than what we give it credit for on theother side. Several improvements I should like to see intro-duced; but the necessity of them doesn't seem to be generallyfelt as yet. When the necessity of a thing is generally felt theyusually manage to accomplish it; but they seem to feel prettycomfortable about waiting till then. I certainly feel more athome among them than I expected to when I first came over; I

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suppose it's because I've had a considerable degree of success.When you're successful you naturally feel more at home."

"Do you suppose that if I'm successful I shall feel at home?"Isabel asked.

"I should think it very probable, and you certainly will be suc-cessful. They like American young ladies very much over here;they show them a great deal of kindness. But you mustn't feeltoo much at home, you know."

"Oh, I'm by no means sure it will satisfy me," Isabel judiciallyemphasised. "I like the place very much, but I'm not sure Ishall like the people."

"The people are very good people; especially if you likethem."

"I've no doubt they're good," Isabel rejoined; "but are theypleasant in society? They won't rob me nor beat me; but willthey make themselves agreeable to me? That's what I likepeople to do. I don't hesitate to say so, because I always appre-ciate it. I don't believe they're very nice to girls; they're notnice to them in the novels."

"I don't know about the novels," said Mr. Touchett. "I believethe novels have a great deal but I don't suppose they're veryaccurate. We once had a lady who wrote novels staying here;she was a friend of Ralph's and he asked her down. She wasvery positive, quite up to everything; but she was not the sortof person you could depend on for evidence. Too free afancy—I suppose that was it. She afterwards published a workof fiction in which she was understood to have given a repres-entation— something in the nature of a caricature, as youmight say—of my unworthy self. I didn't read it, but Ralph justhanded me the book with the principal passages marked. Itwas understood to be a description of my conversation; Amer-ican peculiarities, nasal twang, Yankee notions, stars andstripes. Well, it was not at all accurate; she couldn't havelistened very attentively. I had no objection to her giving a re-port of my conversation, if she liked but I didn't like the ideathat she hadn't taken the trouble to listen to it. Of course I talklike an American—I can't talk like a Hottentot. However I talk,I've made them understand me pretty well over here. But Idon't talk like the old gentleman in that lady's novel. He wasn'tan American; we wouldn't have him over there at any price. I

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just mention that fact to show you that they're not always ac-curate. Of course, as I've no daughters, and as Mrs. Touchettresides in Florence, I haven't had much chance to notice aboutthe young ladies. It sometimes appears as if the young womenin the lower class were not very well treated; but I guess theirposition is better in the upper and even to some extent in themiddle."

"Gracious," Isabel exclaimed; "how many classes have they?About fifty, I suppose."

"Well, I don't know that I ever counted them. I never tookmuch notice of the classes. That's the advantage of being anAmerican here; you don't belong to any class."

"I hope so," said Isabel. "Imagine one's belonging to an Eng-lish class!"

"Well, I guess some of them are pretty comfortable—espe-cially towards the top. But for me there are only two classes:the people I trust and the people I don't. Of those two, my dearIsabel, you belong to the first."

"I'm much obliged to you," said the girl quickly. Her way oftaking compliments seemed sometimes rather dry; she got ridof them as rapidly as possible. But as regards this she wassometimes misjudged; she was thought insensible to them,whereas in fact she was simply unwilling to show how infinitelythey pleased her. To show that was to show too much. "I'msure the English are very conventional," she added.

"They've got everything pretty well fixed," Mr. Touchett ad-mitted. "It's all settled beforehand—they don't leave it to thelast moment."

"I don't like to have everything settled beforehand," said thegirl. "I like more unexpectedness."

Her uncle seemed amused at her distinctness of preference."Well, it's settled beforehand that you'll have great success,"he rejoined. "I suppose you'll like that."

"I shall not have success if they're too stupidly conventional.I'm not in the least stupidly conventional. I'm just the contrary.That's what they won't like."

"No, no, you're all wrong," said the old man. "You can't tellwhat they'll like. They're very inconsistent; that's their princip-al interest."

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"Ah well," said Isabel, standing before her uncle with herhands clasped about the belt of her black dress and looking upand down the lawn—"that will suit me perfectly!"

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Chapter 7The two amused themselves, time and again, with talking ofthe attitude of the British public as if the young lady had beenin a position to appeal to it; but in fact the British public re-mained for the present profoundly indifferent to Miss IsabelArcher, whose fortune had dropped her, as her cousin said, in-to the dullest house in England. Her gouty uncle received verylittle company, and Mrs. Touchett, not having cultivated rela-tions with her husband's neighbours, was not warranted in ex-pecting visits from them. She had, however, a peculiar taste;she liked to receive cards. For what is usually called social in-tercourse she had very little relish; but nothing pleased hermore than to find her hall-table whitened with oblong morselsof symbolic pasteboard. She flattered herself that she was avery just woman, and had mastered the sovereign truth thatnothing in this world is got for nothing. She had played no so-cial part as mistress of Gardencourt, and it was not to be sup-posed that, in the surrounding country, a minute accountshould be kept of her comings and goings. But it is by nomeans certain that she did not feel it to be wrong that so littlenotice was taken of them and that her failure (really very gra-tuitous) to make herself important in the neighbourhood hadnot much to do with the acrimony of her allusions to herhusband's adopted country. Isabel presently found herself inthe singular situation of defending the British constitutionagainst her aunt; Mrs. Touchett having formed the habit ofsticking pins into this venerable instrument. Isabel always feltan impulse to pull out the pins; not that she imagined they in-flicted any damage on the tough old parchment, but because itseemed to her her aunt might make better use of her sharp-ness. She was very critical herself— it was incidental to herage, her sex and her nationality; but she was very sentimental

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as well, and there was something in Mrs. Touchett's drynessthat set her own moral fountains flowing.

"Now what's your point of view?" she asked of her aunt."When you criticise everything here you should have a point ofview. Yours doesn't seem to be American—you thoughteverything over there so disagreeable. When I criticise I havemine; it's thoroughly American!"

"My dear young lady," said Mrs. Touchett, "there are asmany points of view in the world as there are people of senseto take them. You may say that doesn't make them very numer-ous! American? Never in the world; that's shockingly narrow.My point of view, thank God, is personal!"

Isabel thought this a better answer than she admitted; it wasa tolerable description of her own manner of judging, but itwould not have sounded well for her to say so. On the lips of aperson less advanced in life and less enlightened by experiencethan Mrs. Touchett such a declaration would savour of immod-esty, even of arrogance. She risked it nevertheless in talkingwith Ralph, with whom she talked a great deal and with whomher conversation was of a sort that gave a large licence to ex-travagance. Her cousin used, as the phrase is, to chaff her; hevery soon established with her a reputation for treatingeverything as a joke, and he was not a man to neglect the priv-ileges such a reputation conferred. She accused him of an odi-ous want of seriousness, of laughing at all things, beginningwith himself. Such slender faculty of reverence as he pos-sessed centred wholly upon his father; for the rest, he exer-cised his wit indifferently upon his father's son, thisgentleman's weak lungs, his useless life, his fantastic mother,his friends (Lord Warburton in especial), his adopted, and hisnative country, his charming new-found cousin. "I keep a bandof music in my ante-room," he said once to her. "It has ordersto play without stopping; it renders me two excellent services.It keeps the sounds of the world from reaching the privateapartments, and it makes the world think that dancing's goingon within." It was dance-music indeed that you usually heardwhen you came within ear-shot of Ralph's band; the liveliestwaltzes seemed to float upon the air. Isabel often found herselfirritated by this perpetual fiddling; she would have liked topass through the ante-room, as her cousin called it, and enter

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the private apartments. It mattered little that he had assuredher they were a very dismal place; she would have been glad toundertake to sweep them and set them in order. It was buthalf-hospitality to let her remain outside; to punish him forwhich Isabel administered innumerable taps with the ferule ofher straight young wit. It must be said that her wit was exer-cised to a large extent in self-defence, for her cousin amusedhimself with calling her "Columbia" and accusing her of a patri-otism so heated that it scorched. He drew a caricature of her inwhich she was represented as a very pretty young womandressed, on the lines of the prevailing fashion, in the folds ofthe national banner. Isabel's chief dread in life at this period ofher development was that she should appear narrow-minded;what she feared next afterwards was that she should really beso. But she nevertheless made no scruple of abounding in hercousin's sense and pretending to sigh for the charms of hernative land. She would be as American as it pleased him to re-gard her, and if he chose to laugh at her she would give himplenty of occupation. She defended England against his moth-er, but when Ralph sang its praises on purpose, as she said, towork her up, she found herself able to differ from him on avariety of points. In fact, the quality of this small ripe countryseemed as sweet to her as the taste of an October pear; andher satisfaction was at the root of the good spirits which en-abled her to take her cousin's chaff and return it in kind. If hergood-humour flagged at moments it was not because shethought herself ill-used, but because she suddenly felt sorry forRalph. It seemed to her he was talking as a blind and had littleheart in what he said. "I don't know what's the matter withyou," she observed to him once; "but I suspect you're a greathumbug."

"That's your privilege," Ralph answered, who had not beenused to being so crudely addressed.

"I don't know what you care for; I don't think you care foranything. You don't really care for England when you praise it;you don't care for America even when you pretend to abuse it."

"I care for nothing but you, dear cousin," said Ralph."If I could believe even that, I should be very glad.""Ah well, I should hope so!" the young man exclaimed.

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Isabel might have believed it and not have been far from thetruth. He thought a great deal about her; she was constantlypresent to his mind. At a time when his thoughts had been agood deal of a burden to him her sudden arrival, which prom-ised nothing and was an open-handed gift of fate, had re-freshed and quickened them, given them wings and somethingto fly for. Poor Ralph had been for many weeks steeped in mel-ancholy; his outlook, habitually sombre, lay under the shadowof a deeper cloud. He had grown anxious about his father,whose gout, hitherto confined to his legs, had begun to ascendinto regions more vital. The old man had been gravely ill in thespring, and the doctors had whispered to Ralph that anotherattack would be less easy to deal with. Just now he appeareddisburdened of pain, but Ralph could not rid himself of a suspi-cion that this was a subterfuge of the enemy, who was waitingto take him off his guard. If the manoeuvre should succeedthere would be little hope of any great resistance. Ralph hadalways taken for granted that his father would survivehim—that his own name would be the first grimly called. Thefather and son had been close companions, and the idea of be-ing left alone with the remnant of a tasteless life on his handswas not gratifying to the young man, who had always and ta-citly counted upon his elder's help in making the best of a poorbusiness. At the prospect of losing his great motive Ralph lostindeed his one inspiration. If they might die at the same time itwould be all very well; but without the encouragement of hisfather's society he should barely have patience to await hisown turn. He had not the incentive of feeling that he was indis-pensable to his mother; it was a rule with his mother to haveno regrets. He bethought himself of course that it had been asmall kindness to his father to wish that, of the two, the activerather than the passive party should know the felt wound; heremembered that the old man had always treated his own fore-cast of an early end as a clever fallacy, which he should be de-lighted to discredit so far as he might by dying first. But of thetwo triumphs, that of refuting a sophistical son and that ofholding on a while longer to a state of being which, with allabatements, he enjoyed, Ralph deemed it no sin to hope thelatter might be vouchsafed to Mr. Touchett.

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These were nice questions, but Isabel's arrival put a stop tohis puzzling over them. It even suggested there might be acompensation for the intolerable ennui of surviving his genialsire. He wondered whether he were harbouring "love" for thisspontaneous young woman from Albany; but he judged that onthe whole he was not. After he had known her for a week hequite made up his mind to this, and every day he felt a littlemore sure. Lord Warburton had been right about her; she wasa really interesting little figure. Ralph wondered how theirneighbour had found it out so soon; and then he said it wasonly another proof of his friend's high abilities, which he hadalways greatly admired. If his cousin were to be nothing morethan an entertainment to him, Ralph was conscious she was anentertainment of a high order. "A character like that," he saidto himself— "a real little passionate force to see at play is thefinest thing in nature. It's finer than the finest work ofart—than a Greek bas-relief, than a great Titian, than a Gothiccathedral. It's very pleasant to be so well treated where onehad least looked for it. I had never been more blue, morebored, than for a week before she came; I had never expectedless that anything pleasant would happen. Suddenly I receive aTitian, by the post, to hang on my wall—a Greek bas-relief tostick over my chimney-piece. The key of a beautiful edifice isthrust into my hand, and I'm told to walk in and admire. Mypoor boy, you've been sadly ungrateful, and now you had bet-ter keep very quiet and never grumble again." The sentiment ofthese reflexions was very just; but it was not exactly true thatRalph Touchett had had a key put into his hand. His cousin wasa very brilliant girl, who would take, as he said, a good deal ofknowing; but she needed the knowing, and his attitude with re-gard to her, though it was contemplative and critical, was notjudicial. He surveyed the edifice from the outside and admiredit greatly; he looked in at the windows and received an impres-sion of proportions equally fair. But he felt that he saw it onlyby glimpses and that he had not yet stood under the roof. Thedoor was fastened, and though he had keys in his pocket hehad a conviction that none of them would fit. She was intelli-gent and generous; it was a fine free nature; but what was shegoing to do with herself? This question was irregular, for withmost women one had no occasion to ask it. Most women did

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with themselves nothing at all; they waited, in attitudes moreor less gracefully passive, for a man to come that way and fur-nish them with a destiny. Isabel's originality was that she gaveone an impression of having intentions of her own. "Whenevershe executes them," said Ralph, "may I be there to see!"

It devolved upon him of course to do the honours of theplace. Mr. Touchett was confined to his chair, and his wife'sposition was that of rather a grim visitor; so that in the line ofconduct that opened itself to Ralph duty and inclination wereharmoniously mixed. He was not a great walker, but he strolledabout the grounds with his cousin—a pastime for which theweather remained favourable with a persistency not allowedfor in Isabel's somewhat lugubrious prevision of the climate;and in the long afternoons, of which the length was but themeasure of her gratified eagerness, they took a boat on theriver, the dear little river, as Isabel called it, where the oppos-ite shore seemed still a part of the foreground of the land-scape; or drove over the country in a phaeton—a low,capacious, thick-wheeled phaeton formerly much used by Mr.Touchett, but which he had now ceased to enjoy. Isabel en-joyed it largely and, handling the reins in a manner which ap-proved itself to the groom as "knowing," was never weary ofdriving her uncle's capital horses through winding lanes andbyways full of the rural incidents she had confidently expectedto find; past cottages thatched and timbered, past ale-houseslatticed and sanded, past patches of ancient common andglimpses of empty parks, between hedgerows made thick bymidsummer. When they reached home they usually found teahad been served on the lawn and that Mrs. Touchett had notshrunk from the extremity of handing her husband his cup. Butthe two for the most part sat silent; the old man with his headback and his eyes closed, his wife occupied with her knittingand wearing that appearance of rare profundity with whichsome ladies consider the movement of their needles.

One day, however, a visitor had arrived. The two young per-sons, after spending an hour on the river, strolled back to thehouse and perceived Lord Warburton sitting under the treesand engaged in conversation, of which even at a distance thedesultory character was appreciable, with Mrs. Touchett. Hehad driven over from his own place with a portmanteau and

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had asked, as the father and son often invited him to do, for adinner and a lodging. Isabel, seeing him for half an hour on theday of her arrival, had discovered in this brief space that sheliked him; he had indeed rather sharply registered himself onher fine sense and she had thought of him several times. Shehad hoped she should see him again—hoped too that sheshould see a few others. Gardencourt was not dull; the place it-self was sovereign, her uncle was more and more a sort ofgolden grandfather, and Ralph was unlike any cousin she hadever encountered—her idea of cousins having tended to gloom.Then her impressions were still so fresh and so quickly re-newed that there was as yet hardly a hint of vacancy in theview. But Isabel had need to remind herself that she was inter-ested in human nature and that her foremost hope in comingabroad had been that she should see a great many people.When Ralph said to her, as he had done several times, "I won-der you find this endurable; you ought to see some of theneighbours and some of our friends, because we have reallygot a few, though you would never suppose it"—when heoffered to invite what he called a "lot of people" and make heracquainted with English society, she encouraged the hospit-able impulse and promised in advance to hurl herself into thefray. Little, however, for the present, had come of his offers,and it may be confided to the reader that if the young mandelayed to carry them out it was because he found the labourof providing for his companion by no means so severe as to re-quire extraneous help. Isabel had spoken to him very oftenabout "specimens;" it was a word that played a considerablepart in her vocabulary; she had given him to understand thatshe wished to see English society illustrated by eminent cases.

"Well now, there's a specimen," he said to her as they walkedup from the riverside and he recognised Lord Warburton.

"A specimen of what?" asked the girl."A specimen of an English gentleman.""Do you mean they're all like him?""Oh no; they're not all like him.""He's a favourable specimen then," said Isabel; "because I'm

sure he's nice.""Yes, he's very nice. And he's very fortunate."

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The fortunate Lord Warburton exchanged a handshake withour heroine and hoped she was very well. "But I needn't askthat," he said, "since you've been handling the oars."

"I've been rowing a little," Isabel answered; "but how shouldyou know it?"

"Oh, I know he doesn't row; he's too lazy," said his lordship,indicating Ralph Touchett with a laugh.

"He has a good excuse for his laziness," Isabel rejoined,lowering her voice a little.

"Ah, he has a good excuse for everything!" cried Lord War-burton, still with his sonorous mirth.

"My excuse for not rowing is that my cousin rows so well,"said Ralph. "She does everything well. She touches nothingthat she doesn't adorn!"

"It makes one want to be touched, Miss Archer," Lord War-burton declared.

"Be touched in the right sense and you'll never look theworse for it," said Isabel, who, if it pleased her to hear it saidthat her accomplishments were numerous, was happily able toreflect that such complacency was not the indication of afeeble mind, inasmuch as there were several things in whichshe excelled. Her desire to think well of herself had at least theelement of humility that it always needed to be supported byproof.

Lord Warburton not only spent the night at Gardencourt, buthe was persuaded to remain over the second day; and whenthe second day was ended he determined to postpone his de-parture till the morrow. During this period he addressed manyof his remarks to Isabel, who accepted this evidence of his es-teem with a very good grace. She found herself liking him ex-tremely; the first impression he had made on her had hadweight, but at the end of an evening spent in his society shescarce fell short of seeing him—though quite without lurid-ity—as a hero of romance. She retired to rest with a sense ofgood fortune, with a quickened consciousness of possible feli-cities. "It's very nice to know two such charming people asthose," she said, meaning by "those" her cousin and hercousin's friend. It must be added moreover that an incidenthad occurred which might have seemed to put her good-hu-mour to the test. Mr. Touchett went to bed at half-past nine

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o'clock, but his wife remained in the drawing-room with theother members of the party. She prolonged her vigil forsomething less than an hour, and then, rising, observed to Isa-bel that it was time they should bid the gentlemen good-night.Isabel had as yet no desire to go to bed; the occasion wore, toher sense, a festive character, and feasts were not in the habitof terminating so early. So, without further thought, shereplied, very simply—

"Need I go, dear aunt? I'll come up in half an hour.""It's impossible I should wait for you," Mrs. Touchett

answered."Ah, you needn't wait! Ralph will light my candle," Isabel

gaily engaged."I'll light your candle; do let me light your candle, Miss Arch-

er!" Lord Warburton exclaimed. "Only I beg it shall not be be-fore midnight."

Mrs. Touchett fixed her bright little eyes upon him a momentand transferred them coldly to her niece. "You can't stay alonewith the gentlemen. You're not—you're not at your blest Al-bany, my dear."

Isabel rose, blushing. "I wish I were," she said."Oh, I say, mother!" Ralph broke out."My dear Mrs. Touchett!" Lord Warburton murmured."I didn't make your country, my lord," Mrs. Touchett said

majestically. "I must take it as I find it.""Can't I stay with my own cousin?" Isabel enquired."I'm not aware that Lord Warburton is your cousin.""Perhaps I had better go to bed!" the visitor suggested. "That

will arrange it."Mrs. Touchett gave a little look of despair and sat down

again. "Oh, if it's necessary I'll stay up till midnight."Ralph meanwhile handed Isabel her candlestick. He had

been watching her; it had seemed to him her temper was in-volved—an accident that might be interesting. But if he had ex-pected anything of a flare he was disappointed, for the girlsimply laughed a little, nodded good-night and withdrew ac-companied by her aunt. For himself he was annoyed at hismother, though he thought she was right. Above-stairs the twoladies separated at Mrs. Touchett's door. Isabel had said noth-ing on her way up.

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"Of course you're vexed at my interfering with you," saidMrs. Touchett.

Isabel considered. "I'm not vexed, but I'm surprised—and agood deal mystified. Wasn't it proper I should remain in thedrawing-room?"

"Not in the least. Young girls here—in decent houses—don'tsit alone with the gentlemen late at night."

"You were very right to tell me then," said Isabel. "I don't un-derstand it, but I'm very glad to know it.

"I shall always tell you," her aunt answered, "whenever I seeyou taking what seems to me too much liberty."

"Pray do; but I don't say I shall always think your remon-strance just."

"Very likely not. You're too fond of your own ways.""Yes, I think I'm very fond of them. But I always want to

know the things one shouldn't do.""So as to do them?" asked her aunt."So as to choose," said Isabel.

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Chapter 8As she was devoted to romantic effects Lord Warburton ven-tured to express a hope that she would come some day and seehis house, a very curious old place. He extracted from Mrs.Touchett a promise that she would bring her niece toLockleigh, and Ralph signified his willingness to attend theladies if his father should be able to spare him. Lord Warbur-ton assured our heroine that in the mean time his sisters wouldcome and see her. She knew something about his sisters, hav-ing sounded him, during the hours they spent together whilehe was at Gardencourt, on many points connected with hisfamily. When Isabel was interested she asked a great manyquestions, and as her companion was a copious talker sheurged him on this occasion by no means in vain. He told her hehad four sisters and two brothers and had lost both his par-ents. The brothers and sisters were very good people—"notparticularly clever, you know," he said, "but very decent andpleasant;" and he was so good as to hope Miss Archer mightknow them well. One of the brothers was in the Church, settledin the family living, that of Lockleigh, which was a heavy,sprawling parish, and was an excellent fellow in spite of histhinking differently from himself on every conceivable topic.And then Lord Warburton mentioned some of the opinions heldby his brother, which were opinions Isabel had often heard ex-pressed and that she supposed to be entertained by a consider-able portion of the human family. Many of them indeed shesupposed she had held herself, till he assured her she wasquite mistaken, that it was really impossible, that she haddoubtless imagined she entertained them, but that she mightdepend that, if she thought them over a little, she would findthere was nothing in them. When she answered that she hadalready thought several of the questions involved over very at-tentively he declared that she was only another example of

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what he had often been struck with—the fact that, of all thepeople in the world, the Americans were the most grossly su-perstitious. They were rank Tories and bigots, every one ofthem; there were no conservatives like American conservat-ives. Her uncle and her cousin were there to prove it; nothingcould be more medieval than many of their views; they hadideas that people in England nowadays were ashamed to con-fess to; and they had the impudence moreover, said his lord-ship, laughing, to pretend they knew more about the needs anddangers of this poor dear stupid old England than he who wasborn in it and owned a considerable slice of it—the moreshame to him! From all of which Isabel gathered that LordWarburton was a nobleman of the newest pattern, a reformer,a radical, a contemner of ancient ways. His other brother, whowas in the army in India, was rather wild and pig-headed andhad not been of much use as yet but to make debts for Warbur-ton to pay—one of the most precious privileges of an elderbrother. "I don't think I shall pay any more," said her friend;"he lives a monstrous deal better than I do, enjoys unheard-ofluxuries and thinks himself a much finer gentleman than I. AsI'm a consistent radical I go in only for equality; I don't go infor the superiority of the younger brothers." Two of his four sis-ters, the second and fourth, were married, one of them havingdone very well, as they said, the other only so-so. The husbandof the elder, Lord Haycock, was a very good fellow, but unfor-tunately a horrid Tory; and his wife, like all good Englishwives, was worse than her husband. The other had espoused asmallish squire in Norfolk and, though married but the otherday, had already five children. This information and much moreLord Warburton imparted to his young American listener, tak-ing pains to make many things clear and to lay bare to her ap-prehension the peculiarities of English life. Isabel was oftenamused at his explicitness and at the small allowance heseemed to make either for her own experience or for her ima-gination. "He thinks I'm a barbarian," she said, "and that I'venever seen forks and spoons;" and she used to ask him artlessquestions for the pleasure of hearing him answer seriously.Then when he had fallen into the trap, "It's a pity you can't seeme in my war-paint and feathers," she remarked; "if I hadknown how kind you are to the poor savages I would have

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brought over my native costume!" Lord Warburton had trav-elled through the United States and knew much more aboutthem than Isabel; he was so good as to say that America wasthe most charming country in the world, but his recollectionsof it appeared to encourage the idea that Americans in Englandwould need to have a great many things explained to them. "IfI had only had you to explain things to me in America!" he said."I was rather puzzled in your country; in fact I was quite be-wildered, and the trouble was that the explanations onlypuzzled me more. You know I think they often gave me thewrong ones on purpose; they're rather clever about that overthere. But when I explain you can trust me; about what I tellyou there's no mistake." There was no mistake at least abouthis being very intelligent and cultivated and knowing almosteverything in the world. Although he gave the most interestingand thrilling glimpses Isabel felt he never did it to exhibit him-self, and though he had had rare chances and had tumbled in,as she put it, for high prizes, he was as far as possible frommaking a merit of it. He had enjoyed the best things of life, butthey had not spoiled his sense of proportion. His quality was amixture of the effect of rich experience—oh, so easily comeby!—with a modesty at times almost boyish; the sweet andwholesome savour of which—it was as agreeable as somethingtasted—lost nothing from the addition of a tone of responsiblekindness.

"I like your specimen English gentleman very much," Isabelsaid to Ralph after Lord Warburton had gone.

"I like him too—I love him well," Ralph returned. "But I pityhim more."

Isabel looked at him askance. "Why, that seems to me hisonly fault—that one can't pity him a little. He appears to haveeverything, to know everything, to be everything."

"Oh, he's in a bad way!" Ralph insisted."I suppose you don't mean in health?""No, as to that he's detestably sound. What I mean is that

he's a man with a great position who's playing all sorts oftricks with it. He doesn't take himself seriously."

"Does he regard himself as a joke?""Much worse; he regards himself as an imposition—as an

abuse."

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"Well, perhaps he is," said Isabel."Perhaps he is—though on the whole I don't think so. But in

that case what's more pitiable than a sentient, self-consciousabuse planted by other hands, deeply rooted but aching with asense of its injustice? For me, in his place, I could be as solemnas a statue of Buddha. He occupies a position that appeals tomy imagination. Great responsibilities, great opportunities,great consideration, great wealth, great power, a natural sharein the public affairs of a great country. But he's all in a muddleabout himself, his position, his power, and indeed abouteverything in the world. He's the victim of a critical age; he hasceased to believe in himself and he doesn't know what to be-lieve in. When I attempt to tell him (because if I were he Iknow very well what I should believe in) he calls me apampered bigot. I believe he seriously thinks me an awful Phil-istine; he says I don't understand my time. I understand it cer-tainly better than he, who can neither abolish himself as a nuis-ance nor maintain himself as an institution."

"He doesn't look very wretched," Isabel observed."Possibly not; though, being a man of a good deal of charm-

ing taste, I think he often has uncomfortable hours. But what isit to say of a being of his opportunities that he's not miserable?Besides, I believe he is."

"I don't," said Isabel."Well," her cousin rejoined, "if he isn't he ought to be!"In the afternoon she spent an hour with her uncle on the

lawn, where the old man sat, as usual, with his shawl over hislegs and his large cup of diluted tea in his hands. In the courseof conversation he asked her what she thought of their latevisitor.

Isabel was prompt. "I think he's charming.""He's a nice person," said Mr. Touchett, "but I don't recom-

mend you to fall in love with him.""I shall not do it then; I shall never fall in love but on your re-

commendation. Moreover," Isabel added, "my cousin gives merather a sad account of Lord Warburton."

"Oh, indeed? I don't know what there may be to say, but youmust remember that Ralph must talk."

"He thinks your friend's too subversive—or not subversiveenough! I don't quite understand which," said Isabel.

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The old man shook his head slowly, smiled and put down hiscup. "I don't know which either. He goes very far, but it's quitepossible he doesn't go far enough. He seems to want to doaway with a good many things, but he seems to want to remainhimself. I suppose that's natural, but it's rather inconsistent."

"Oh, I hope he'll remain himself," said Isabel. "If he were tobe done away with his friends would miss him sadly."

"Well," said the old man, "I guess he'll stay and amuse hisfriends. I should certainly miss him very much here at Garden-court. He always amuses me when he comes over, and I thinkhe amuses himself as well. There's a considerable number likehim, round in society; they're very fashionable just now. I don'tknow what they're trying to do—whether they're trying to getup a revolution. I hope at any rate they'll put it off till after I'mgone. You see they want to disestablish everything; but I'm apretty big landowner here, and I don't want to be disestab-lished. I wouldn't have come over if I had thought they weregoing to behave like that," Mr. Touchett went on with expand-ing hilarity. "I came over because I thought England was a safecountry. I call it a regular fraud if they are going to introduceany considerable changes; there'll be a large number disap-pointed in that case."

"Oh, I do hope they'll make a revolution!" Isabel exclaimed. "Ishould delight in seeing a revolution."

"Let me see," said her uncle, with a humorous intention; "Iforget whether you're on the side of the old or on the side ofthe new. I've heard you take such opposite views."

"I'm on the side of both. I guess I'm a little on the side ofeverything. In a revolution—after it was well begun—I think Ishould be a high, proud loyalist. One sympathises more withthem, and they've a chance to behave so exquisitely. I mean sopicturesquely."

"I don't know that I understand what you mean by behavingpicturesquely, but it seems to me that you do that always, mydear."

"Oh, you lovely man, if I could believe that!" the girlinterrupted.

"I'm afraid, after all, you won't have the pleasure of goinggracefully to the guillotine here just now," Mr. Touchett wenton. "If you want to see a big outbreak you must pay us a long

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visit. You see, when you come to the point it wouldn't suit themto be taken at their word."

"Of whom are you speaking?""Well, I mean Lord Warburton and his friends—the radicals

of the upper class. Of course I only know the way it strikes me.They talk about the changes, but I don't think they quite real-ise. You and I, you know, we know what it is to have lived un-der democratic institutions: I always thought them very com-fortable, but I was used to them from the first. And then I ain'ta lord; you're a lady, my dear, but I ain't a lord. Now over hereI don't think it quite comes home to them. It's a matter of everyday and every hour, and I don't think many of them would findit as pleasant as what they've got. Of course if they want to try,it's their own business; but I expect they won't try very hard."

"Don't you think they're sincere?" Isabel asked."Well, they want to FEEL earnest," Mr. Touchett allowed;

"but it seems as if they took it out in theories mostly. Their rad-ical views are a kind of amusement; they've got to have someamusement, and they might have coarser tastes than that. Yousee they're very luxurious, and these progressive ideas areabout their biggest luxury. They make them feel moral and yetdon't damage their position. They think a great deal of their po-sition; don't let one of them ever persuade you he doesn't, for ifyou were to proceed on that basis you'd be pulled up veryshort."

Isabel followed her uncle's argument, which he unfolded withhis quaint distinctness, most attentively, and though she wasunacquainted with the British aristocracy she found it in har-mony with her general impressions of human nature. But shefelt moved to put in a protest on Lord Warburton's behalf. "Idon't believe Lord Warburton's a humbug; I don't care whatthe others are. I should like to see Lord Warburton put to thetest."

"Heaven deliver me from my friends!" Mr. Touchettanswered. "Lord Warburton's a very amiable young man—avery fine young man. He has a hundred thousand a year. Heowns fifty thousand acres of the soil of this little island andever so many other things besides. He has half a dozen housesto live in. He has a seat in Parliament as I have one at my owndinner-table. He has elegant tastes—cares for literature, for

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art, for science, for charming young ladies. The most elegant ishis taste for the new views. It affords him a great deal of pleas-ure—more perhaps than anything else, except the youngladies. His old house over there—what does he call it,Lockleigh?—is very attractive; but I don't think it's as pleasantas this. That doesn't matter, however—he has so many others.His views don't hurt any one as far as I can see; they certainlydon't hurt himself. And if there were to be a revolution hewould come off very easily. They wouldn't touch him, they'dleave him as he is: he's too much liked."

"Ah, he couldn't be a martyr even if he wished!" Isabelsighed. "That's a very poor position."

"He'll never be a martyr unless you make him one," said theold man.

Isabel shook her head; there might have been somethinglaughable in the fact that she did it with a touch of melancholy."I shall never make any one a martyr."

"You'll never be one, I hope.""I hope not. But you don't pity Lord Warburton then as Ralph

does?"Her uncle looked at her a while with genial acuteness. "Yes, I

do, after all!"

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Chapter 9The two Misses Molyneux, this nobleman's sisters, camepresently to call upon her, and Isabel took a fancy to the youngladies, who appeared to her to show a most original stamp. It istrue that when she described them to her cousin by that termhe declared that no epithet could be less applicable than this tothe two Misses Molyneux, since there were fifty thousandyoung women in England who exactly resembled them. De-prived of this advantage, however, Isabel's visitors retainedthat of an extreme sweetness and shyness of demeanour, andof having, as she thought, eyes like the balanced basins, thecircles of "ornamental water," set, in parterres, among thegeraniums.

"They're not morbid, at any rate, whatever they are," ourheroine said to herself; and she deemed this a great charm, fortwo or three of the friends of her girlhood had been regrettablyopen to the charge (they would have been so nice without it),to say nothing of Isabel's having occasionally suspected it as atendency of her own. The Misses Molyneux were not in theirfirst youth, but they had bright, fresh complexions andsomething of the smile of childhood. Yes, their eyes, which Isa-bel admired, were round, quiet and contented, and their fig-ures, also of a generous roundness, were encased in sealskinjackets. Their friendliness was great, so great that they werealmost embarrassed to show it; they seemed somewhat afraidof the young lady from the other side of the world and ratherlooked than spoke their good wishes. But they made it clear toher that they hoped she would come to luncheon at Lockleigh,where they lived with their brother, and then they might seeher very, very often. They wondered if she wouldn't come oversome day, and sleep: they were expecting some people on thetwenty-ninth, so perhaps she would come while the peoplewere there.

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"I'm afraid it isn't any one very remarkable," said the eldersister; "but I dare say you'll take us as you find us."

"I shall find you delightful; I think you're enchanting just asyou are," replied Isabel, who often praised profusely.

Her visitors flushed, and her cousin told her, after they weregone, that if she said such things to those poor girls they wouldthink she was in some wild, free manner practising on them: hewas sure it was the first time they had been called enchanting.

"I can't help it," Isabel answered. "I think it's lovely to be soquiet and reasonable and satisfied. I should like to be likethat."

"Heaven forbid!" cried Ralph with ardour."I mean to try and imitate them," said Isabel. "I want very

much to see them at home."She had this pleasure a few days later, when, with Ralph and

his mother, she drove over to Lockleigh. She found the MissesMolyneux sitting in a vast drawing-room (she perceived after-wards it was one of several) in a wilderness of faded chintz;they were dressed on this occasion in black velveteen. Isabelliked them even better at home than she had done at Garden-court, and was more than ever struck with the fact that theywere not morbid. It had seemed to her before that if they had afault it was a want of play of mind; but she presently saw theywere capable of deep emotion. Before luncheon she was alonewith them for some time, on one side of the room, while LordWarburton, at a distance, talked to Mrs. Touchett.

"Is it true your brother's such a great radical?" Isabel asked.She knew it was true, but we have seen that her interest in hu-man nature was keen, and she had a desire to draw the MissesMolyneux out.

"Oh dear, yes; he's immensely advanced," said Mildred, theyounger sister.

"At the same time Warburton's very reasonable," MissMolyneux observed.

Isabel watched him a moment at the other side of the room;he was clearly trying hard to make himself agreeable to Mrs.Touchett. Ralph had met the frank advances of one of the dogsbefore the fire that the temperature of an English August, inthe ancient expanses, had not made an impertinence. "Do yousuppose your brother's sincere?" Isabel enquired with a smile.

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"Oh, he must be, you know!" Mildred exclaimed quickly,while the elder sister gazed at our heroine in silence.

"Do you think he would stand the test?""The test?""I mean for instance having to give up all this.""Having to give up Lockleigh?" said Miss Molyneux, finding

her voice."Yes, and the other places; what are they called?"The two sisters exchanged an almost frightened glance. "Do

you mean—do you mean on account of the expense?" theyounger one asked.

"I dare say he might let one or two of his houses," said theother.

"Let them for nothing?" Isabel demanded."I can't fancy his giving up his property," said Miss

Molyneux."Ah, I'm afraid he is an impostor!" Isabel returned. "Don't

you think it's a false position?"Her companions, evidently, had lost themselves. "My

brother's position?" Miss Molyneux enquired."It's thought a very good position," said the younger sister.

"It's the first position in this part of the county.""I dare say you think me very irreverent," Isabel took occa-

sion to remark. "I suppose you revere your brother and arerather afraid of him."

"Of course one looks up to one's brother," said MissMolyneux simply.

"If you do that he must be very good—because you, evidently,are beautifully good."

"He's most kind. It will never be known, the good he does.""His ability is known," Mildred added; "every one thinks it's

immense.""Oh, I can see that," said Isabel. "But if I were he I should

wish to fight to the death: I mean for the heritage of the past. Ishould hold it tight."

"I think one ought to be liberal," Mildred argued gently."We've always been so, even from the earliest times."

"Ah well," said Isabel, "you've made a great success of it; Idon't wonder you like it. I see you're very fond of crewels."

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When Lord Warburton showed her the house, after luncheon,it seemed to her a matter of course that it should be a noblepicture. Within, it had been a good deal modernised—some ofits best points had lost their purity; but as they saw it from thegardens, a stout grey pile, of the softest, deepest, mostweather-fretted hue, rising from a broad, still moat, it affectedthe young visitor as a castle in a legend. The day was cool andrather lustreless; the first note of autumn had been struck, andthe watery sunshine rested on the walls in blurred and des-ultory gleams, washing them, as it were, in places tenderlychosen, where the ache of antiquity was keenest. Her host'sbrother, the Vicar, had come to luncheon, and Isabel had hadfive minutes' talk with him—time enough to institute a searchfor a rich ecclesiasticism and give it up as vain. The marks ofthe Vicar of Lockleigh were a big, athletic figure, a candid, nat-ural countenance, a capacious appetite and a tendency to in-discriminate laughter. Isabel learned afterwards from hercousin that before taking orders he had been a mighty wrestlerand that he was still, on occasion—in the privacy of the familycircle as it were—quite capable of flooring his man. Isabel likedhim—she was in the mood for liking everything; but her ima-gination was a good deal taxed to think of him as a source ofspiritual aid. The whole party, on leaving lunch, went to walkin the grounds; but Lord Warburton exercised some ingenuityin engaging his least familiar guest in a stroll apart from theothers.

"I wish you to see the place properly, seriously," he said."You can't do so if your attention is distracted by irrelevantgossip." His own conversation (though he told Isabel a gooddeal about the house, which had a very curious history) wasnot purely archaeological; he reverted at intervals to mattersmore personal —matters personal to the young lady as well asto himself. But at last, after a pause of some duration, return-ing for a moment to their ostensible theme, "Ah, well," he said,"I'm very glad indeed you like the old barrack. I wish you couldsee more of it —that you could stay here a while. My sistershave taken an immense fancy to you—if that would be anyinducement."

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"There's no want of inducements," Isabel answered; "but I'mafraid I can't make engagements. I'm quite in my aunt'shands."

"Ah, pardon me if I say I don't exactly believe that. I'm prettysure you can do whatever you want."

"I'm sorry if I make that impression on you; I don't think it's anice impression to make."

"It has the merit of permitting me to hope." And Lord War-burton paused a moment.

"To hope what?""That in future I may see you often.""Ah," said Isabel, "to enjoy that pleasure I needn't be so ter-

ribly emancipated.""Doubtless not; and yet, at the same time, I don't think your

uncle likes me.""You're very much mistaken. I've heard him speak very

highly of you.""I'm glad you have talked about me," said Lord Warburton.

"But, I nevertheless don't think he'd like me to keep coming toGardencourt."

"I can't answer for my uncle's tastes," the girl rejoined,"though I ought as far as possible to take them into account.But for myself I shall be very glad to see you."

"Now that's what I like to hear you say. I'm charmed whenyou say that."

"You're easily charmed, my lord," said Isabel."No, I'm not easily charmed!" And then he stopped a mo-

ment. "But you've charmed me, Miss Archer."These words were uttered with an indefinable sound which

startled the girl; it struck her as the prelude to somethinggrave: she had heard the sound before and she recognised it.She had no wish, however, that for the moment such a preludeshould have a sequel, and she said as gaily as possible and asquickly as an appreciable degree of agitation would allow her:"I'm afraid there's no prospect of my being able to come hereagain."

"Never?" said Lord Warburton."I won't say 'never'; I should feel very melodramatic.""May I come and see you then some day next week?""Most assuredly. What is there to prevent it?"

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"Nothing tangible. But with you I never feel safe. I've a sortof sense that you're always summing people up."

"You don't of necessity lose by that.""It's very kind of you to say so; but, even if I gain, stern

justice is not what I most love. Is Mrs. Touchett going to takeyou abroad?"

"I hope so.""Is England not good enough for you?""That's a very Machiavellian speech; it doesn't deserve an an-

swer. I want to see as many countries as I can.""Then you'll go on judging, I suppose.""Enjoying, I hope, too.""Yes, that's what you enjoy most; I can't make out what

you're up to," said Lord Warburton. "You strike me as havingmysterious purposes—vast designs."

"You're so good as to have a theory about me which I don't atall fill out. Is there anything mysterious in a purpose enter-tained and executed every year, in the most public manner, byfifty thousand of my fellow-countrymen—the purpose of im-proving one's mind by foreign travel?"

"You can't improve your mind, Miss Archer," her companiondeclared. "It's already a most formidable instrument. It looksdown on us all; it despises us."

"Despises you? You're making fun of me," said Isabelseriously.

"Well, you think us 'quaint'—that's the same thing. I won't bethought 'quaint,' to begin with; I'm not so in the least. Iprotest."

"That protest is one of the quaintest things I've ever heard,"Isabel answered with a smile.

Lord Warburton was briefly silent. "You judge only from theoutside—you don't care," he said presently. "You only care toamuse yourself." The note she had heard in his voice a momentbefore reappeared, and mixed with it now was an audiblestrain of bitterness—a bitterness so abrupt and inconsequentthat the girl was afraid she had hurt him. She had often heardthat the English are a highly eccentric people, and she hadeven read in some ingenious author that they are at bottom themost romantic of races. Was Lord Warburton suddenly turningromantic—was he going to make her a scene, in his own house,

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only the third time they had met? She was reassured quicklyenough by her sense of his great good manners, which was notimpaired by the fact that he had already touched the furthestlimit of good taste in expressing his admiration of a young ladywho had confided in his hospitality. She was right in trusting tohis good manners, for he presently went on, laughing a littleand without a trace of the accent that had discomposed her: "Idon't mean of course that you amuse yourself with trifles. Youselect great materials; the foibles, the afflictions of humannature, the peculiarities of nations!"

"As regards that," said Isabel, "I should find in my own nationentertainment for a lifetime. But we've a long drive, and myaunt will soon wish to start." She turned back toward the oth-ers and Lord Warburton walked beside her in silence. But be-fore they reached the others, "I shall come and see you nextweek," he said.

She had received an appreciable shock, but as it died awayshe felt that she couldn't pretend to herself that it was alto-gether a painful one. Nevertheless she made answer to his de-claration, coldly enough, "Just as you please." And her coldnesswas not the calculation of her effect—a game she played in amuch smaller degree than would have seemed probable tomany critics. It came from a certain fear.

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Chapter 10The day after her visit to Lockleigh she received a note fromher friend Miss Stackpole—a note of which the envelope, ex-hibiting in conjunction the postmark of Liverpool and the neatcalligraphy of the quick-fingered Henrietta, caused her someliveliness of emotion. "Here I am, my lovely friend," Miss Stack-pole wrote; "I managed to get off at last. I decided only thenight before I left New York—the Interviewer having comeround to my figure. I put a few things into a bag, like a veteranjournalist, and came down to the steamer in a street-car.Where are you and where can we meet? I suppose you're visit-ing at some castle or other and have already acquired the cor-rect accent. Perhaps even you have married a lord; I almosthope you have, for I want some introductions to the first peopleand shall count on you for a few. The Interviewer wants somelight on the nobility. My first impressions (of the people atlarge) are not rose-coloured; but I wish to talk them over withyou, and you know that, whatever I am, at least I'm not superfi-cial. I've also something very particular to tell you. Do appointa meeting as quickly as you can; come to London (I should likeso much to visit the sights with you) or else let me come to you,wherever you are. I will do so with pleasure; for you knoweverything interests me and I wish to see as much as possibleof the inner life."

Isabel judged best not to show this letter to her uncle; butshe acquainted him with its purport, and, as she expected, hebegged her instantly to assure Miss Stackpole, in his name,that he should be delighted to receive her at Gardencourt."Though she's a literary lady," he said, "I suppose that, beingan American, she won't show me up, as that other one did. Shehas seen others like me."

"She has seen no other so delightful!" Isabel answered; butshe was not altogether at ease about Henrietta's reproductive

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instincts, which belonged to that side of her friend's characterwhich she regarded with least complacency. She wrote to MissStackpole, however, that she would be very welcome underMr. Touchett's roof; and this alert young woman lost no time inannouncing her prompt approach. She had gone up to London,and it was from that centre that she took the train for the sta-tion nearest to Gardencourt, where Isabel and Ralph were inwaiting to receive her.

"Shall I love her or shall I hate her?" Ralph asked while theymoved along the platform.

"Whichever you do will matter very little to her," said Isabel."She doesn't care a straw what men think of her."

"As a man I'm bound to dislike her then. She must be a kindof monster. Is she very ugly?"

"No, she's decidedly pretty.""A female interviewer—a reporter in petticoats? I'm very

curious to see her," Ralph conceded."It's very easy to laugh at her but it is not easy to be as brave

as she.""I should think not; crimes of violence and attacks on the per-

son require more or less pluck. Do you suppose she'll interviewme?"

"Never in the world. She'll not think you of enoughimportance."

"You'll see," said Ralph. "She'll send a description of us all,including Bunchie, to her newspaper."

"I shall ask her not to," Isabel answered."You think she's capable of it then?""Perfectly.""And yet you've made her your bosom-friend?""I've not made her my bosom-friend; but I like her in spite of

her faults.""Ah well," said Ralph, "I'm afraid I shall dislike her in spite of

her merits.""You'll probably fall in love with her at the end of three

days.""And have my love-letters published in the Interviewer?

Never!" cried the young man.The train presently arrived, and Miss Stackpole, promptly

descending, proved, as Isabel had promised, quite delicately,

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even though rather provincially, fair. She was a neat, plumpperson, of medium stature, with a round face, a small mouth, adelicate complexion, a bunch of light brown ringlets at theback of her head and a peculiarly open, surprised-looking eye.The most striking point in her appearance was the remarkablefixedness of this organ, which rested without impudence or de-fiance, but as if in conscientious exercise of a natural right,upon every object it happened to encounter. It rested in thismanner upon Ralph himself, a little arrested by MissStackpole's gracious and comfortable aspect, which hinted thatit wouldn't be so easy as he had assumed to disapprove of her.She rustled, she shimmered, in fresh, dove-coloured draperies,and Ralph saw at a glance that she was as crisp and new andcomprehensive as a first issue before the folding. From top totoe she had probably no misprint. She spoke in a clear, highvoice—a voice not rich but loud; yet after she had taken herplace with her companions in Mr. Touchett's carriage shestruck him as not all in the large type, the type of horrid "head-ings," that he had expected. She answered the enquiries madeof her by Isabel, however, and in which the young man ven-tured to join, with copious lucidity; and later, in the library atGardencourt, when she had made the acquaintance of Mr.Touchett (his wife not having thought it necessary to appear)did more to give the measure of her confidence in her powers.

"Well, I should like to know whether you consider yourselvesAmerican or English," she broke out. "If once I knew I couldtalk to you accordingly."

"Talk to us anyhow and we shall be thankful," Ralph liberallyanswered.

She fixed her eyes on him, and there was something in theircharacter that reminded him of large polished buttons—but-tons that might have fixed the elastic loops of some tense re-ceptacle: he seemed to see the reflection of surrounding ob-jects on the pupil. The expression of a button is not usuallydeemed human, but there was something in Miss Stackpole'sgaze that made him, as a very modest man, feel vaguely em-barrassed—less inviolate, more dishonoured, than he liked.This sensation, it must be added, after he had spent a day ortwo in her company, sensibly diminished, though it never

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wholly lapsed. "I don't suppose that you're going to undertaketo persuade me that you're an American," she said.

"To please you I'll be an Englishman, I'll be a Turk!""Well, if you can change about that way you're very wel-

come," Miss Stackpole returned."I'm sure you understand everything and that differences of

nationality are no barrier to you," Ralph went on.Miss Stackpole gazed at him still. "Do you mean the foreign

languages?""The languages are nothing. I mean the spirit—the genius.""I'm not sure that I understand you," said the correspondent

of the Interviewer; "but I expect I shall before I leave.""He's what's called a cosmopolite," Isabel suggested."That means he's a little of everything and not much of any. I

must say I think patriotism is like charity—it begins at home.""Ah, but where does home begin, Miss Stackpole?" Ralph

enquired."I don't know where it begins, but I know where it ends. It

ended a long time before I got here.""Don't you like it over here?" asked Mr. Touchett with his

aged, innocent voice."Well, sir, I haven't quite made up my mind what ground I

shall take. I feel a good deal cramped. I felt it on the journeyfrom Liverpool to London."

"Perhaps you were in a crowded carriage," Ralph suggested."Yes, but it was crowded with friends—party of Americans

whose acquaintance I had made upon the steamer; a lovelygroup from Little Rock, Arkansas. In spite of that I feltcramped—I felt something pressing upon me; I couldn't tellwhat it was. I felt at the very commencement as if I were notgoing to accord with the atmosphere. But I suppose I shallmake my own atmosphere. That's the true way—then you canbreathe. Your surroundings seem very attractive."

"Ah, we too are a lovely group!" said Ralph. "Wait a little andyou'll see."

Miss Stackpole showed every disposition to wait and evid-ently was prepared to make a considerable stay at Garden-court. She occupied herself in the mornings with literary la-bour; but in spite of this Isabel spent many hours with herfriend, who, once her daily task performed, deprecated, in fact

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defied, isolation. Isabel speedily found occasion to desire her todesist from celebrating the charms of their common sojourn inprint, having discovered, on the second morning of MissStackpole's visit, that she was engaged on a letter to the Inter-viewer, of which the title, in her exquisitely neat and legiblehand (exactly that of the copybooks which our heroine re-membered at school) was "Americans and Tudors—Glimpses ofGardencourt." Miss Stackpole, with the best conscience in theworld, offered to read her letter to Isabel, who immediately putin her protest.

"I don't think you ought to do that. I don't think you ought todescribe the place."

Henrietta gazed at her as usual. "Why, it's just what thepeople want, and it's a lovely place."

"It's too lovely to be put in the newspapers, and it's not whatmy uncle wants."

"Don't you believe that!" cried Henrietta. "They're always de-lighted afterwards."

"My uncle won't be delighted—nor my cousin either. They'llconsider it a breach of hospitality."

Miss Stackpole showed no sense of confusion; she simplywiped her pen, very neatly, upon an elegant little implementwhich she kept for the purpose, and put away her manuscript."Of course if you don't approve I won't do it; but I sacrifice abeautiful subject."

"There are plenty of other subjects, there are subjects allround you. We'll take some drives; I'll show you some charmingscenery."

"Scenery's not my department; I always need a human in-terest. You know I'm deeply human, Isabel; I always was," MissStackpole rejoined. "I was going to bring in your cousin—thealienated American. There's a great demand just now for thealienated American, and your cousin's a beautiful specimen. Ishould have handled him severely."

"He would have died of it!" Isabel exclaimed. "Not of theseverity, but of the publicity."

"Well, I should have liked to kill him a little. And I shouldhave delighted to do your uncle, who seems to me a much no-bler type—the American faithful still. He's a grand old man; Idon't see how he can object to my paying him honour."

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Isabel looked at her companion in much wonderment; itstruck her as strange that a nature in which she found so muchto esteem should break down so in spots. "My poor Henrietta,"she said, "you've no sense of privacy."

Henrietta coloured deeply, and for a moment her brillianteyes were suffused, while Isabel found her more than ever in-consequent. "You do me great injustice," said Miss Stackpolewith dignity. "I've never written a word about myself!"

"I'm very sure of that; but it seems to me one should be mod-est for others also!"

"Ah, that's very good!" cried Henrietta, seizing her penagain. "Just let me make a note of it and I'll put it in some-where." she was a thoroughly good-natured woman, and halfan hour later she was in as cheerful a mood as should havebeen looked for in a newspaper-lady in want of matter. "I'vepromised to do the social side," she said to Isabel; "and howcan I do it unless I get ideas? If I can't describe this place don'tyou know some place I can describe?" Isabel promised shewould bethink herself, and the next day, in conversation withher friend, she happened to mention her visit to LordWarburton's ancient house. "Ah, you must take methere—that's just the place for me!" Miss Stackpole cried. "Imust get a glimpse of the nobility."

"I can't take you," said Isabel; "but Lord Warburton's cominghere, and you'll have a chance to see him and observe him.Only if you intend to repeat his conversation I shall certainlygive him warning."

"Don't do that," her companion pleaded; "I want him to benatural."

"An Englishman's never so natural as when he's holding histongue," Isabel declared.

It was not apparent, at the end of three days, that her cousinhad, according to her prophecy, lost his heart to their visitor,though he had spent a good deal of time in her society. Theystrolled about the park together and sat under the trees, and inthe afternoon, when it was delightful to float along the Thames,Miss Stackpole occupied a place in the boat in which hithertoRalph had had but a single companion. Her presence provedsomehow less irreducible to soft particles than Ralph had ex-pected in the natural perturbation of his sense of the perfect

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solubility of that of his cousin; for the correspondent of the In-terviewer prompted mirth in him, and he had long since de-cided that the crescendo of mirth should be the flower of hisdeclining days. Henrietta, on her side, failed a little to justifyIsabel's declaration with regard to her indifference to mascu-line opinion; for poor Ralph appeared to have presented him-self to her as an irritating problem, which it would be almostimmoral not to work out.

"What does he do for a living?" she asked of Isabel the even-ing of her arrival. "Does he go round all day with his hands inhis pockets?"

"He does nothing," smiled Isabel; "he's a gentleman of largeleisure."

"Well, I call that a shame—when I have to work like a car-conductor," Miss Stackpole replied. "I should like to show himup."

"He's in wretched health; he's quite unfit for work," Isabelurged.

"Pshaw! don't you believe it. I work when I'm sick," cried herfriend. Later, when she stepped into the boat on joining thewater-party, she remarked to Ralph that she supposed hehated her and would like to drown her.

"Ah no," said Ralph, "I keep my victims for a slower torture.And you'd be such an interesting one!"

"Well, you do torture me; I may say that. But I shock all yourprejudices; that's one comfort."

"My prejudices? I haven't a prejudice to bless myself with.There's intellectual poverty for you."

"The more shame to you; I've some delicious ones. Of courseI spoil your flirtation, or whatever it is you call it, with yourcousin; but I don't care for that, as I render her the service ofdrawing you out. She'll see how thin you are."

"Ah, do draw me out!" Ralph exclaimed. "So few people willtake the trouble."

Miss Stackpole, in this undertaking, appeared to shrink fromno effort; resorting largely, whenever the opportunity offered,to the natural expedient of interrogation. On the following daythe weather was bad, and in the afternoon the young man, byway of providing indoor amusement, offered to show her thepictures. Henrietta strolled through the long gallery in his

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society, while he pointed out its principal ornaments and men-tioned the painters and subjects. Miss Stackpole looked at thepictures in perfect silence, committing herself to no opinion,and Ralph was gratified by the fact that she delivered herselfof none of the little ready-made ejaculations of delight of whichthe visitors to Gardencourt were so frequently lavish. Thisyoung lady indeed, to do her justice, was but little addicted tothe use of conventional terms; there was something earnestand inventive in her tone, which at times, in its strained delib-eration, suggested a person of high culture speaking a foreignlanguage. Ralph Touchett subsequently learned that she had atone time officiated as art critic to a journal of the other world;but she appeared, in spite of this fact, to carry in her pocketnone of the small change of admiration. Suddenly, just after hehad called her attention to a charming Constable, she turnedand looked at him as if he himself had been a picture.

"Do you always spend your time like this?" she demanded."I seldom spend it so agreeably.""Well, you know what I mean—without any regular

occupation.""Ah," said Ralph, "I'm the idlest man living."Miss Stackpole directed her gaze to the Constable again, and

Ralph bespoke her attention for a small Lancret hanging nearit, which represented a gentleman in a pink doublet and hoseand a ruff, leaning against the pedestal of the statue of anymph in a garden and playing the guitar to two ladies seatedon the grass. "That's my ideal of a regular occupation," he said.

Miss Stackpole turned to him again, and, though her eyeshad rested upon the picture, he saw she had missed the sub-ject. She was thinking of something much more serious. "Idon't see how you can reconcile it to your conscience."

"My dear lady, I have no conscience!""Well, I advise you to cultivate one. You'll need it the next

time you go to America.""I shall probably never go again.""Are you ashamed to show yourself?"Ralph meditated with a mild smile. "I suppose that if one has

no conscience one has no shame.""Well, you've got plenty of assurance," Henrietta declared.

"Do you consider it right to give up your country?"

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"Ah, one doesn't give up one's country any more than onegives UP one's grandmother. They're both antecedent tochoice—elements of one's composition that are not to beeliminated."

"I suppose that means that you've tried and been worsted.What do they think of you over here?"

"They delight in me.""That's because you truckle to them.""Ah, set it down a little to my natural charm!" Ralph sighed."I don't know anything about your natural charm. If you've

got any charm it's quite unnatural. It's wholly acquired—or atleast you've tried hard to acquire it, living over here. I don'tsay you've succeeded. It's a charm that I don't appreciate, any-way. Make yourself useful in some way, and then we'll talkabout it." "Well, now, tell me what I shall do," said Ralph.

"Go right home, to begin with.""Yes, I see. And then?""Take right hold of something.""Well, now, what sort of thing?""Anything you please, so long as you take hold. Some new

idea, some big work.""Is it very difficult to take hold?" Ralph enquired."Not if you put your heart into it.""Ah, my heart," said Ralph. "If it depends upon my heart—!""Haven't you got a heart?""I had one a few days ago, but I've lost it since.""You're not serious," Miss Stackpole remarked; "that's what's

the matter with you." But for all this, in a day or two, she againpermitted him to fix her attention and on the later occasion as-signed a different cause to her mysterious perversity. "I knowwhat's the matter with you, Mr. Touchett," she said. "You thinkyou're too good to get married."

"I thought so till I knew you, Miss Stackpole," Ralphanswered; "and then I suddenly changed my mind."

"Oh pshaw!" Henrietta groaned."Then it seemed to me," said Ralph, "that I was not good

enough.""It would improve you. Besides, it's your duty.""Ah," cried the young man, "one has so many duties! Is that a

duty too?"

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"Of course it is—did you never know that before? It's everyone's duty to get married."

Ralph meditated a moment; he was disappointed. There wassomething in Miss Stackpole he had begun to like; it seemed tohim that if she was not a charming woman she was at least avery good "sort." She was wanting in distinction, but, as Isabelhad said, she was brave: she went into cages, she flourishedlashes, like a spangled lion-tamer. He had not supposed her tobe capable of vulgar arts, but these last words struck him as afalse note. When a marriageable young woman urges matri-mony on an unencumbered young man the most obvious ex-planation of her conduct is not the altruistic impulse.

"Ah, well now, there's a good deal to be said about that," Ral-ph rejoined.

"There may be, but that's the principal thing. I must say Ithink it looks very exclusive, going round all alone, as if youthought no woman was good enough for you. Do you thinkyou're better than any one else in the world? In America it'susual for people to marry."

"If it's my duty," Ralph asked, "is it not, by analogy, yours aswell?"

Miss Stackpole's ocular surfaces unwinkingly caught the sun."Have you the fond hope of finding a flaw in my reasoning? Ofcourse I've as good a right to marry as any one else."

"Well then," said Ralph, "I won't say it vexes me to see yousingle. It delights me rather."

"You're not serious yet. You never will be.""Shall you not believe me to be so on the day I tell you I de-

sire to give up the practice of going round alone?"Miss Stackpole looked at him for a moment in a manner

which seemed to announce a reply that might technically becalled encouraging. But to his great surprise this expressionsuddenly resolved itself into an appearance of alarm and evenof resentment. "No, not even then," she answered dryly. Afterwhich she walked away.

"I've not conceived a passion for your friend," Ralph said thatevening to Isabel, "though we talked some time this morningabout it."

"And you said something she didn't like," the girl replied.Ralph stared. "Has she complained of me?"

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"She told me she thinks there's something very low in thetone of Europeans towards women."

"Does she call me a European?""One of the worst. She told me you had said to her something

that an American never would have said. But she didn't repeatit."

Ralph treated himself to a luxury of laughter. "She's an ex-traordinary combination. Did she think I was making love toher?"

"No; I believe even Americans do that. But she apparentlythought you mistook the intention of something she had said,and put an unkind construction on it."

"I thought she was proposing marriage to me and I acceptedher. Was that unkind?"

Isabel smiled. "It was unkind to me. I don't want you tomarry."

"My dear cousin, what's one to do among you all?" Ralph de-manded. "Miss Stackpole tells me it's my bounden duty, andthat it's hers, in general, to see I do mine!"

"She has a great sense of duty," said Isabel gravely. "She hasindeed, and it's the motive of everything she says. That's what Ilike her for. She thinks it's unworthy of you to keep so manythings to yourself. That's what she wanted to express. If youthought she was trying to—to attract you, you were verywrong."

"It's true it was an odd way, but I did think she was trying toattract me. Forgive my depravity."

"You're very conceited. She had no interested views, andnever supposed you would think she had."

"One must be very modest then to talk with such women,"Ralph said humbly. "But it's a very strange type. She's too per-sonal— considering that she expects other people not to be.She walks in without knocking at the door."

"Yes," Isabel admitted, "she doesn't sufficiently recognise theexistence of knockers; and indeed I'm not sure that she doesn'tthink them rather a pretentious ornament. She thinks one'sdoor should stand ajar. But I persist in liking her."

"I persist in thinking her too familiar," Ralph rejoined, natur-ally somewhat uncomfortable under the sense of having beendoubly deceived in Miss Stackpole.

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"Well," said Isabel, smiling, "I'm afraid it's because she'srather vulgar that I like her."

"She would be flattered by your reason!""If I should tell her I wouldn't express it in that way. I should

say it's because there's something of the 'people' in her.""What do you know about the people? and what does she, for

that matter?""She knows a great deal, and I know enough to feel that she's

a kind of emanation of the great democracy—of the continent,the country, the nation. I don't say that she sums it all up, thatwould be too much to ask of her. But she suggests it; shevividly figures it."

"You like her then for patriotic reasons. I'm afraid it is onthose very grounds I object to her."

"Ah," said Isabel with a kind of joyous sigh, "I like so manythings! If a thing strikes me with a certain intensity I accept it.I don't want to swagger, but I suppose I'm rather versatile. Ilike people to be totally different from Henrietta—in the styleof Lord Warburton's sisters for instance. So long as I look atthe Misses Molyneux they seem to me to answer a kind ofideal. Then Henrietta presents herself, and I'm straightwayconvinced by her; not so much in respect to herself as in re-spect to what masses behind her."

"Ah, you mean the back view of her," Ralph suggested."What she says is true," his cousin answered; "you'll never be

serious. I like the great country stretching away beyond therivers and across the prairies, blooming and smiling andspreading till it stops at the green Pacific! A strong, sweet,fresh odour seems to rise from it, and Henrietta—pardon mysimile—has something of that odour in her garments."

Isabel blushed a little as she concluded this speech, and theblush, together with the momentary ardour she had thrown in-to it, was so becoming to her that Ralph stood smiling at herfor a moment after she had ceased speaking. "I'm not sure thePacific's so green as that," he said; "but you're a young womanof imagination. Henrietta, however, does smell of the Fu-ture—it almost knocks one down!"

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Chapter 11He took a resolve after this not to misinterpret her words evenwhen Miss Stackpole appeared to strike the personal note moststrongly. He bethought himself that persons, in her view, weresimple and homogeneous organisms, and that he, for his ownpart, was too perverted a representative of the nature of manto have a right to deal with her in strict reciprocity. He carriedout his resolve with a great deal of tact, and the young ladyfound in renewed contact with him no obstacle to the exerciseof her genius for unshrinking enquiry, the general applicationof her confidence. Her situation at Gardencourt therefore, ap-preciated as we have seen her to be by Isabel and full of appre-ciation herself of that free play of intelligence which, to hersense, rendered Isabel's character a sister-spirit, and of theeasy venerableness of Mr. Touchett, whose noble tone, as shesaid, met with her full approval—her situation at Gardencourtwould have been perfectly comfortable had she not conceivedan irresistible mistrust of the little lady for whom she had atfirst supposed herself obliged to "allow" as mistress of thehouse. She presently discovered, in truth, that this obligationwas of the lightest and that Mrs. Touchett cared very little howMiss Stackpole behaved. Mrs. Touchett had defined her to Isa-bel as both an adventuress and a bore—adventuresses usuallygiving one more of a thrill; she had expressed some surprise ather niece's having selected such a friend, yet had immediatelyadded that she knew Isabel's friends were her own affair andthat she had never undertaken to like them all or to restrict thegirl to those she liked.

"If you could see none but the people I like, my dear, you'dhave a very small society," Mrs. Touchett frankly admitted;"and I don't think I like any man or woman well enough to re-commend them to you. When it comes to recommending it's aserious affair. I don't like Miss Stackpole—everything about

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her displeases me; she talks so much too loud and looks at oneas if one wanted to look at her—which one doesn't. I'm sureshe has lived all her life in a boarding-house, and I detest themanners and the liberties of such places. If you ask me if Iprefer my own manners, which you doubtless think very bad,I'll tell you that I prefer them immensely. Miss Stackpoleknows I detest boarding-house civilisation, and she detests mefor detesting it, because she thinks it the highest in the world.She'd like Gardencourt a great deal better if it were aboarding-house. For me, I find it almost too much of one! Weshall never get on together therefore, and there's no usetrying."

Mrs. Touchett was right in guessing that Henrietta disap-proved of her, but she had not quite put her finger on the reas-on. A day or two after Miss Stackpole's arrival she had madesome invidious reflexions on American hotels, which excited avein of counter-argument on the part of the correspondent ofthe Interviewer, who in the exercise of her profession had ac-quainted herself, in the western world, with every form of cara-vansary. Henrietta expressed the opinion that American hotelswere the best in the world, and Mrs. Touchett, fresh from a re-newed struggle with them, recorded a conviction that theywere the worst. Ralph, with his experimental geniality, sugges-ted, by way of healing the breach, that the truth lay betweenthe two extremes and that the establishments in questionought to be described as fair middling. This contribution to thediscussion, however, Miss Stackpole rejected with scorn. Mid-dling indeed! If they were not the best in the world they werethe worst, but there was nothing middling about an Americanhotel.

"We judge from different points of view, evidently," said Mrs.Touchett. "I like to be treated as an individual; you like to betreated as a 'party.'"

"I don't know what you mean," Henrietta replied. "I like to betreated as an American lady."

"Poor American ladies!" cried Mrs. Touchett with a laugh."They're the slaves of slaves."

"They're the companions of freemen," Henrietta retorted."They're the companions of their servants—the Irish cham-

bermaid and the negro waiter. They share their work."

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"Do you call the domestics in an American household'slaves'?" Miss Stackpole enquired. "If that's the way you de-sire to treat them, no wonder you don't like America."

"If you've not good servants you're miserable," Mrs. Touchettserenely said. "They're very bad in America, but I've five per-fect ones in Florence."

"I don't see what you want with five," Henrietta couldn't helpobserving. "I don't think I should like to see five persons sur-rounding me in that menial position."

"I like them in that position better than in some others," pro-claimed Mrs. Touchett with much meaning.

"Should you like me better if I were your butler, dear?" herhusband asked.

"I don't think I should: you wouldn't at all have the tenue.""The companions of freemen—I like that, Miss Stackpole,"

said Ralph. "It's a beautiful description.""When I said freemen I didn't mean you, sir!"And this was the only reward that Ralph got for his compli-

ment. Miss Stackpole was baffled; she evidently thought therewas something treasonable in Mrs. Touchett's appreciation of aclass which she privately judged to be a mysterious survival offeudalism. It was perhaps because her mind was oppressedwith this image that she suffered some days to elapse beforeshe took occasion to say to Isabel: "My dear friend, I wonder ifyou're growing faithless."

"Faithless? Faithless to you, Henrietta?""No, that would be a great pain; but it's not that.""Faithless to my country then?""Ah, that I hope will never be. When I wrote to you from

Liverpool I said I had something particular to tell you. You'venever asked me what it is. Is it because you've suspected?"

"Suspected what? As a rule I don't think I suspect," saidIsabel.

"I remember now that phrase in your letter, but I confess Ihad forgotten it. What have you to tell me?"

Henrietta looked disappointed, and her steady gaze betrayedit. "You don't ask that right—as if you thought it important.You're changed—you're thinking of other things."

"Tell me what you mean, and I'll think of that.""Will you really think of it? That's what I wish to be sure of."

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"I've not much control of my thoughts, but I'll do my best,"said Isabel. Henrietta gazed at her, in silence, for a periodwhich tried Isabel's patience, so that our heroine added at last:"Do you mean that you're going to be married?"

"Not till I've seen Europe!" said Miss Stackpole. "What areyou laughing at?" she went on. "What I mean is that Mr. Good-wood came out in the steamer with me."

"Ah!" Isabel responded."You say that right. I had a good deal of talk with him; he has

come after you.""Did he tell you so?""No, he told me nothing; that's how I knew it," said Henrietta

cleverly. "He said very little about you, but I spoke of you agood deal."

Isabel waited. At the mention of Mr. Goodwood's name shehad turned a little pale. "I'm very sorry you did that," she ob-served at last.

"It was a pleasure to me, and I liked the way he listened. Icould have talked a long time to such a listener; he was soquiet, so intense; he drank it all in."

"What did you say about me?" Isabel asked."I said you were on the whole the finest creature I know.""I'm very sorry for that. He thinks too well of me already; he

oughtn't to be encouraged.""He's dying for a little encouragement. I see his face now,

and his earnest absorbed look while I talked. I never saw anugly man look so handsome."

"He's very simple-minded," said Isabel. "And he's not sougly."

"There's nothing so simplifying as a grand passion.""It's not a grand passion; I'm very sure it's not that.""You don't say that as if you were sure."Isabel gave rather a cold smile. "I shall say it better to Mr.

Goodwood himself.""He'll soon give you a chance," said Henrietta. Isabel offered

no answer to this assertion, which her companion made withan air of great confidence. "He'll find you changed," the latterpursued. "You've been affected by your new surroundings."

"Very likely. I'm affected by everything."

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"By everything but Mr. Goodwood!" Miss Stackpole ex-claimed with a slightly harsh hilarity.

Isabel failed even to smile back and in a moment she said:"Did he ask you to speak to me?"

"Not in so many words. But his eyes asked it—and his hand-shake, when he bade me good-bye."

"Thank you for doing so." And Isabel turned away."Yes, you're changed; you've got new ideas over here," her

friend continued."I hope so," said Isabel; "one should get as many new ideas

as possible.""Yes; but they shouldn't interfere with the old ones when the

old ones have been the right ones."Isabel turned about again. "If you mean that I had any idea

with regard to Mr. Goodwood—!" But she faltered before herfriend's implacable glitter.

"My dear child, you certainly encouraged him."Isabel made for the moment as if to deny this charge; instead

of which, however, she presently answered: "It's very true. Idid encourage him." And then she asked if her companion hadlearned from Mr. Goodwood what he intended to do. It was aconcession to her curiosity, for she disliked discussing the sub-ject and found Henrietta wanting in delicacy.

"I asked him, and he said he meant to do nothing," MissStackpole answered. "But I don't believe that; he's not a man todo nothing. He is a man of high, bold action. Whatever happensto him he'll always do something, and whatever he does will al-ways be right."

"I quite believe that." Henrietta might be wanting in delicacy,but it touched the girl, all the same, to hear this declaration.

"Ah, you do care for him!" her visitor rang out."Whatever he does will always be right," Isabel repeated.

"When a man's of that infallible mould what does it matter tohim what one feels?"

"It may not matter to him, but it matters to one's self.""Ah, what it matters to me—that's not what we're discuss-

ing," said Isabel with a cold smile.This time her companion was grave. "Well, I don't care; you

have changed. You're not the girl you were a few short weeksago, and Mr. Goodwood will see it. I expect him here any day."

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"I hope he'll hate me then," said Isabel."I believe you hope it about as much as I believe him capable

of it."To this observation our heroine made no return; she was ab-

sorbed in the alarm given her by Henrietta's intimation thatCaspar Goodwood would present himself at Gardencourt. Shepretended to herself, however, that she thought the event im-possible, and, later, she communicated her disbelief to herfriend. For the next forty-eight hours, nevertheless, she stoodprepared to hear the young man's name announced. The feel-ing pressed upon her; it made the air sultry, as if there were tobe a change of weather; and the weather, socially speaking,had been so agreeable during Isabel's stay at Gardencourt thatany change would be for the worse. Her suspense indeed wasdissipated the second day. She had walked into the park incompany with the sociable Bunchie, and after strolling aboutfor some time, in a manner at once listless and restless, hadseated herself on a garden-bench, within sight of the house, be-neath a spreading beech, where, in a white dress ornamentedwith black ribbons, she formed among the flickering shadows agraceful and harmonious image. She entertained herself forsome moments with talking to the little terrier, as to whom theproposal of an ownership divided with her cousin had been ap-plied as impartially as possible—as impartially as Bunchie'sown somewhat fickle and inconstant sympathies would allow.But she was notified for the first time, on this occasion, of thefinite character of Bunchie's intellect; hitherto she had beenmainly struck with its extent. It seemed to her at last that shewould do well to take a book; formerly, when heavy-hearted,she had been able, with the help of some well-chosen volume,to transfer the seat of consciousness to the organ of pure reas-on. Of late, it was not to be denied, literature had seemed afading light, and even after she had reminded herself that heruncle's library was provided with a complete set of those au-thors which no gentleman's collection should be without, shesat motionless and empty-handed, her eyes bent on the coolgreen turf of the lawn. Her meditations were presently inter-rupted by the arrival of a servant who handed her a letter. Theletter bore the London postmark and was addressed in a handshe knew—that came into her vision, already so held by him,

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with the vividness of the writer's voice or his face. This docu-ment proved short and may be given entire.

MY DEAR MISS ARCHER—I don't know whether you willhave heard of my coming to England, but even if you have notit will scarcely be a surprise to you. You will remember thatwhen you gave me my dismissal at Albany, three months ago, Idid not accept it. I protested against it. You in fact appeared toaccept my protest and to admit that I had the right on my side.I had come to see you with the hope that you would let mebring you over to my conviction; my reasons for entertainingthis hope had been of the best. But you disappointed it; I foundyou changed, and you were able to give me no reason for thechange. You admitted that you were unreasonable, and it wasthe only concession you would make; but it was a very cheapone, because that's not your character. No, you are not, andyou never will be, arbitrary or capricious. Therefore it is that Ibelieve you will let me see you again. You told me that I'm notdisagreeable to you, and I believe it; for I don't see why thatshould be. I shall always think of you; I shall never think of anyone else. I came to England simply because you are here; Icouldn't stay at home after you had gone: I hated the countrybecause you were not in it. If I like this country at present it isonly because it holds you. I have been to England before, buthave never enjoyed it much. May I not come and see you forhalf an hour? This at present is the dearest wish of yoursfaithfully

CASPAR GOODWOOD.Isabel read this missive with such deep attention that she

had not perceived an approaching tread on the soft grass.Looking up, however, as she mechanically folded it she sawLord Warburton standing before her.

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Chapter 12She put the letter into her pocket and offered her visitor asmile of welcome, exhibiting no trace of discomposure and halfsurprised at her coolness.

"They told me you were out here," said Lord Warburton; "andas there was no one in the drawing-room and it's really youthat I wish to see, I came out with no more ado."

Isabel had got up; she felt a wish, for the moment, that heshould not sit down beside her. "I was just going indoors."

"Please don't do that; it's much jollier here; I've ridden overfrom Lockleigh; it's a lovely day." His smile was peculiarlyfriendly and pleasing, and his whole person seemed to emitthat radiance of good-feeling and good fare which had formedthe charm of the girl's first impression of him. It surroundedhim like a zone of fine June weather.

"We'll walk about a little then," said Isabel, who could not di-vest herself of the sense of an intention on the part of her visit-or and who wished both to elude the intention and to satisfyher curiosity about it. It had flashed upon her vision once be-fore, and it had given her on that occasion, as we know, a cer-tain alarm. This alarm was composed of several elements, notall of which were disagreeable; she had indeed spent somedays in analysing them and had succeeded in separating thepleasant part of the idea of Lord Warburton's "making up" toher from the painful. It may appear to some readers that theyoung lady was both precipitate and unduly fastidious; but thelatter of these facts, if the charge be true, may serve to exoner-ate her from the discredit of the former. She was not eager toconvince herself that a territorial magnate, as she had heardLord Warburton called, was smitten with her charms; the factof a declaration from such a source carrying with it really morequestions than it would answer. She had received a strong im-pression of his being a "personage," and she had occupied

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herself in examining the image so conveyed. At the risk ofadding to the evidence of her self-sufficiency it must be saidthat there had been moments when this possibility of admira-tion by a personage represented to her an aggression almost tothe degree of an affront, quite to the degree of an inconveni-ence. She had never yet known a personage; there had been nopersonages, in this sense, in her life; there were probably nonesuch at all in her native land. When she had thought of indi-vidual eminence she had thought of it on the basis of characterand wit—of what one might like in a gentleman's mind and inhis talk. She herself was a character —she couldn't help beingaware of that; and hitherto her visions of a completed con-sciousness had concerned themselves largely with moral im-ages—things as to which the question would be whether theypleased her sublime soul. Lord Warburton loomed up beforeher, largely and brightly, as a collection of attributes andpowers which were not to be measured by this simple rule, butwhich demanded a different sort of appreciation—an appreci-ation that the girl, with her habit of judging quickly and freely,felt she lacked patience to bestow. He appeared to demand ofher something that no one else, as it were, had presumed todo. What she felt was that a territorial, a political, a socialmagnate had conceived the design of drawing her into the sys-tem in which he rather invidiously lived and moved. A certaininstinct, not imperious, but persuasive, told her to resist— mur-mured to her that virtually she had a system and an orbit ofher own. It told her other things besides—things which bothcontradicted and confirmed each other; that a girl might domuch worse than trust herself to such a man and that it wouldbe very interesting to see something of his system from hisown point of view; that on the other hand, however, there wasevidently a great deal of it which she should regard only as acomplication of every hour, and that even in the whole therewas something stiff and stupid which would make it a burden.Furthermore there was a young man lately come from Americawho had no system at all, but who had a character of which itwas useless for her to try to persuade herself that the impres-sion on her mind had been light. The letter she carried in herpocket all sufficiently reminded her of the contrary. Smile not,however, I venture to repeat, at this simple young woman from

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Albany who debated whether she should accept an Englishpeer before he had offered himself and who was disposed tobelieve that on the whole she could do better. She was a per-son of great good faith, and if there was a great deal of folly inher wisdom those who judge her severely may have the satis-faction of finding that, later, she became consistently wise onlyat the cost of an amount of folly which will constitute almost adirect appeal to charity.

Lord Warburton seemed quite ready to walk, to sit or to doanything that Isabel should propose, and he gave her this as-surance with his usual air of being particularly pleased to exer-cise a social virtue. But he was, nevertheless, not in commandof his emotions, and as he strolled beside her for a moment, insilence, looking at her without letting her know it, there wassomething embarrassed in his glance and his misdirectedlaughter. Yes, assuredly—as we have touched on the point, wemay return to it for a moment again—the English are the mostromantic people in the world and Lord Warburton was about togive an example of it. He was about to take a step which wouldastonish all his friends and displease a great many of them,and which had superficially nothing to recommend it. Theyoung lady who trod the turf beside him had come from aqueer country across the sea which he knew a good deal about;her antecedents, her associations were very vague to his mindexcept in so far as they were generic, and in this sense theyshowed as distinct and unimportant. Miss Archer had neither afortune nor the sort of beauty that justifies a man to the multi-tude, and he calculated that he had spent about twenty-sixhours in her company. He had summed up all this—the per-versity of the impulse, which had declined to avail itself of themost liberal opportunities to subside, and the judgement ofmankind, as exemplified particularly in the more quickly-judging half of it: he had looked these things well in the faceand then had dismissed them from his thoughts. He cared nomore for them than for the rosebud in his buttonhole. It is thegood fortune of a man who for the greater part of a lifetime hasabstained without effort from making himself disagreeable tohis friends, that when the need comes for such a course it isnot discredited by irritating associations.

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"I hope you had a pleasant ride," said Isabel, who observedher companion's hesitancy.

"It would have been pleasant if for nothing else than that itbrought me here."

"Are you so fond of Gardencourt?" the girl asked, more andmore sure that he meant to make some appeal to her; wishingnot to challenge him if he hesitated, and yet to keep all thequietness of her reason if he proceeded. It suddenly came uponher that her situation was one which a few weeks ago shewould have deemed deeply romantic: the park of an oldEnglish country-house, with the foreground embellished by a"great" (as she supposed) nobleman in the act of making loveto a young lady who, on careful inspection, should be found topresent remarkable analogies with herself. But if she was nowthe heroine of the situation she succeeded scarcely the less inlooking at it from the outside.

"I care nothing for Gardencourt," said her companion. "I careonly for you."

"You've known me too short a time to have a right to saythat, and I can't believe you're serious."

These words of Isabel's were not perfectly sincere, for shehad no doubt whatever that he himself was. They were simplya tribute to the fact, of which she was perfectly aware, thatthose he had just uttered would have excited surprise on thepart of a vulgar world. And, moreover, if anything beside thesense she had already acquired that Lord Warburton was not aloose thinker had been needed to convince her, the tone inwhich he replied would quite have served the purpose.

"One's right in such a matter is not measured by the time,Miss Archer; it's measured by the feeling itself. If I were towait three months it would make no difference; I shall not bemore sure of what I mean than I am to-day. Of course I've seenyou very little, but my impression dates from the very first hourwe met. I lost no time, I fell in love with you then. It was at firstsight, as the novels say; I know now that's not a fancy-phrase,and I shall think better of novels for evermore. Those two daysI spent here settled it; I don't know whether you suspected Iwas doing so, but I paid-mentally speaking I mean— thegreatest possible attention to you. Nothing you said, nothingyou did, was lost upon me. When you came to Lockleigh the

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other day—or rather when you went away—I was perfectlysure. Nevertheless I made up my mind to think it over and toquestion myself narrowly. I've done so; all these days I've donenothing else. I don't make mistakes about such things; I'm avery judicious animal. I don't go off easily, but when I'mtouched, it's for life. It's for life, Miss Archer, it's for life," LordWarburton repeated in the kindest, tenderest, pleasantestvoice Isabel had ever heard, and looking at her with eyescharged with the light of a passion that had sifted itself clear ofthe baser parts of emotion—the heat, the violence, the unreas-on—and that burned as steadily as a lamp in a windless place.

By tacit consent, as he talked, they had walked more andmore slowly, and at last they stopped and he took her hand."Ah, Lord Warburton, how little you know me!" Isabel said verygently. Gently too she drew her hand away.

"Don't taunt me with that; that I don't know you better makesme unhappy enough already; it's all my loss. But that's what Iwant, and it seems to me I'm taking the best way. If you'll bemy wife, then I shall know you, and when I tell you all the goodI think of you you'll not be able to say it's from ignorance."

"If you know me little I know you even less," said Isabel."You mean that, unlike yourself, I may not improve on ac-

quaintance? Ah, of course that's very possible. But think, tospeak to you as I do, how determined I must be to try and givesatisfaction! You do like me rather, don't you?"

"I like you very much, Lord Warburton," she answered; andat this moment she liked him immensely.

"I thank you for saying that; it shows you don't regard me asa stranger. I really believe I've filled all the other relations oflife very creditably, and I don't see why I shouldn't fill thisone—in which I offer myself to you—seeing that I care so muchmore about it. Ask the people who know me well; I've friendswho'll speak for me."

"I don't need the recommendation of your friends," saidIsabel.

"Ah now, that's delightful of you. You believe in me yourself.""Completely," Isabel declared. She quite glowed there, in-

wardly, with the pleasure of feeling she did.

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The light in her companion's eyes turned into a smile, and hegave a long exhalation of joy. "If you're mistaken, Miss Archer,let me lose all I possess!"

She wondered whether he meant this for a reminder that hewas rich, and, on the instant, felt sure that he didn't. He wasthinking that, as he would have said himself; and indeed hemight safely leave it to the memory of any interlocutor, espe-cially of one to whom he was offering his hand. Isabel hadprayed that she might not be agitated, and her mind was tran-quil enough, even while she listened and asked herself what itwas best she should say, to indulge in this incidental criticism.What she should say, had she asked herself? Her foremost wishwas to say something if possible not less kind than what he hadsaid to her. His words had carried perfect conviction withthem; she felt she did, all so mysteriously, matter to him. "Ithank you more than I can say for your offer," she returned atlast. "It does me great honour."

"Ah, don't say that!" he broke out. "I was afraid you'd saysomething like that. I don't see what you've to do with that sortof thing. I don't see why you should thank me—it's I who oughtto thank you for listening to me: a man you know so little com-ing down on you with such a thumper! Of course it's a greatquestion; I must tell you that I'd rather ask it than have it toanswer myself. But the way you've listened—or at least yourhaving listened at all—gives me some hope."

"Don't hope too much," Isabel said."Oh Miss Archer!" her companion murmured, smiling again,

in his seriousness, as if such a warning might perhaps be takenbut as the play of high spirits, the exuberance of elation.

"Should you be greatly surprised if I were to beg you not tohope at all?" Isabel asked.

"Surprised? I don't know what you mean by surprise. Itwouldn't be that; it would be a feeling very much worse."

Isabel walked on again; she was silent for some minutes. "I'mvery sure that, highly as I already think of you, my opinion ofyou, if I should know you well, would only rise. But I'm by nomeans sure that you wouldn't be disappointed. And I say thatnot in the least out of conventional modesty; it's perfectlysincere."

"I'm willing to risk it, Miss Archer," her companion replied.

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"It's a great question, as you say. It's a very difficultquestion."

"I don't expect you of course to answer it outright. Think itover as long as may be necessary. If I can gain by waiting I'llgladly wait a long time. Only remember that in the end mydearest happiness depends on your answer."

"I should be very sorry to keep you in suspense," said Isabel."Oh, don't mind. I'd much rather have a good answer six

months hence than a bad one to-day.""But it's very probable that even six months hence I shouldn't

be able to give you one that you'd think good.""Why not, since you really like me?""Ah, you must never doubt that," said Isabel."Well then, I don't see what more you ask!""It's not what I ask; it's what I can give. I don't think I should

suit you; I really don't think I should.""You needn't worry about that. That's my affair. You needn't

be a better royalist than the king.""It's not only that," said Isabel; "but I'm not sure I wish to

marry any one.""Very likely you don't. I've no doubt a great many women be-

gin that way," said his lordship, who, be it averred, did not inthe least believe in the axiom he thus beguiled his anxiety byuttering. "But they're frequently persuaded."

"Ah, that's because they want to be!" And Isabel lightlylaughed. Her suitor's countenance fell, and he looked at her fora while in silence. "I'm afraid it's my being an Englishman thatmakes you hesitate," he said presently. "I know your unclethinks you ought to marry in your own country."

Isabel listened to this assertion with some interest; it hadnever occurred to her that Mr. Touchett was likely to discussher matrimonial prospects with Lord Warburton. "Has he toldyou that?"

"I remember his making the remark. He spoke perhaps ofAmericans generally."

"He appears himself to have found it very pleasant to live inEngland." Isabel spoke in a manner that might have seemed alittle perverse, but which expressed both her constant percep-tion of her uncle's outward felicity and her general dispositionto elude any obligation to take a restricted view.

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It gave her companion hope, and he immediately cried withwarmth: "Ah, my dear Miss Archer, old England's a very goodsort of country, you know! And it will be still better when we'vefurbished it up a little."

"Oh, don't furbish it, Lord Warburton—, leave it alone. I likeit this way."

"Well then, if you like it, I'm more and more unable to seeyour objection to what I propose."

"I'm afraid I can't make you understand.""You ought at least to try. I've a fair intelligence. Are you

afraid—afraid of the climate? We can easily live elsewhere, youknow. You can pick out your climate, the whole world over."

These words were uttered with a breadth of candour thatwas like the embrace of strong arms—that was like the fra-grance straight in her face, and by his clean, breathing lips, ofshe knew not what strange gardens, what charged airs. Shewould have given her little finger at that moment to feelstrongly and simply the impulse to answer: "Lord Warburton,it's impossible for me to do better in this wonderful world, Ithink, than commit myself, very gratefully, to your loyalty." Butthough she was lost in admiration of her opportunity she man-aged to move back into the deepest shade of it, even as somewild, caught creature in a vast cage. The "splendid" security sooffered her was not the greatest she could conceive. What shefinally bethought herself of saying was something very differ-ent—something that deferred the need of really facing hercrisis. "Don't think me unkind if I ask you to say no more aboutthis to-day."

"Certainly, certainly!" her companion cried. "I wouldn't boreyou for the world."

"You've given me a great deal to think about, and I promiseyou to do it justice."

"That's all I ask of you, of course—and that you'll rememberhow absolutely my happiness is in your hands."

Isabel listened with extreme respect to this admonition, butshe said after a minute: "I must tell you that what I shall thinkabout is some way of letting you know that what you ask is im-possible—letting you know it without making you miserable."

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"There's no way to do that, Miss Archer. I won't say that ifyou refuse me you'll kill me; I shall not die of it. But I shall doworse; I shall live to no purpose."

"You'll live to marry a better woman than I.""Don't say that, please," said Lord Warburton very gravely.

"That's fair to neither of us.""To marry a worse one then.""If there are better women than you I prefer the bad ones.

That's all I can say," he went on with the same earnestness."There's no accounting for tastes."

His gravity made her feel equally grave, and she showed itby again requesting him to drop the subject for the present."I'll speak to you myself—very soon. Perhaps I shall write toyou."

"At your convenience, yes," he replied. "Whatever time youtake, it must seem to me long, and I suppose I must make thebest of that."

"I shall not keep you in suspense; I only want to collect mymind a little."

He gave a melancholy sigh and stood looking at her a mo-ment, with his hands behind him, giving short nervous shakesto his hunting-crop. "Do you know I'm very much afraid ofit—of that remarkable mind of yours?"

Our heroine's biographer can scarcely tell why, but the ques-tion made her start and brought a conscious blush to hercheek. She returned his look a moment, and then with a note inher voice that might almost have appealed to his compassion,"So am I, my lord!" she oddly exclaimed.

His compassion was not stirred, however; all he possessed ofthe faculty of pity was needed at home. "Ah! be merciful, bemerciful," he murmured.

"I think you had better go," said Isabel. "I'll write to you.""Very good; but whatever you write I'll come and see you,

you know." And then he stood reflecting, his eyes fixed on theobservant countenance of Bunchie, who had the air of havingunderstood all that had been said and of pretending to carryoff the indiscretion by a simulated fit of curiosity as to theroots of an ancient oak. "There's one thing more," he went on."You know, if you don't like Lockleigh—if you think it's damp oranything of that sort—you need never go within fifty miles of it.

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It's not damp, by the way; I've had the house thoroughly ex-amined; it's perfectly safe and right. But if you shouldn't fancyit you needn't dream of living in it. There's no difficultywhatever about that; there are plenty of houses. I thought I'djust mention it; some people don't like a moat, you know. Good-bye."

"I adore a moat," said Isabel. "Good-bye."He held out his hand, and she gave him hers a moment—a

moment long enough for him to bend his handsome bared headand kiss it. Then, still agitating, in his mastered emotion, hisimplement of the chase, he walked rapidly away. He was evid-ently much upset.

Isabel herself was upset, but she had not been affected asshe would have imagined. What she felt was not a great re-sponsibility, a great difficulty of choice; it appeared to herthere had been no choice in the question. She couldn't marryLord Warburton; the idea failed to support any enlightenedprejudice in favour of the free exploration of life that she hadhitherto entertained or was now capable of entertaining. Shemust write this to him, she must convince him, and that dutywas comparatively simple. But what disturbed her, in the sensethat it struck her with wonderment, was this very fact that itcost her so little to refuse a magnificent "chance." Withwhatever qualifications one would, Lord Warburton hadoffered her a great opportunity; the situation might have dis-comforts, might contain oppressive, might contain narrowingelements, might prove really but a stupefying anodyne; but shedid her sex no injustice in believing that nineteen women out oftwenty would have accommodated themselves to it without apang. Why then upon her also should it not irresistibly imposeitself? Who was she, what was she, that she should hold herselfsuperior? What view of life, what design upon fate, what con-ception of happiness, had she that pretended to be larger thanthese large these fabulous occasions? If she wouldn't do such athing as that then she must do great things, she must dosomething greater. Poor Isabel found ground to remind herselffrom time to time that she must not be too proud, and nothingcould be more sincere than her prayer to be delivered fromsuch a danger: the isolation and loneliness of pride had for hermind the horror of a desert place. If it had been pride that

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interfered with her accepting Lord Warburton such a betisewas singularly misplaced; and she was so conscious of likinghim that she ventured to assure herself it was the very soft-ness, and the fine intelligence, of sympathy. She liked him toomuch to marry him, that was the truth; something assured herthere was a fallacy somewhere in the glowing logic of the pro-position—as he saw it— even though she mightn't put her veryfinest finger-point on it; and to inflict upon a man who offeredso much a wife with a tendency to criticise would be a peculi-arly discreditable act. She had promised him she would con-sider his question, and when, after he had left her, shewandered back to the bench where he had found her and lostherself in meditation, it might have seemed that she was keep-ing her vow. But this was not the case; she was wondering ifshe were not a cold, hard, priggish person, and, on her at lastgetting up and going rather quickly back to the house, felt, asshe had said to her friend, really frightened at herself.

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Chapter 13It was this feeling and not the wish to ask advice—she had nodesire whatever for that—that led her to speak to her uncle ofwhat had taken place. She wished to speak to some one; sheshould feel more natural, more human, and her uncle, for thispurpose, presented himself in a more attractive light thaneither her aunt or her friend Henrietta. Her cousin of coursewas a possible confidant; but she would have had to do herselfviolence to air this special secret to Ralph. So the next day,after breakfast, she sought her occasion. Her uncle never lefthis apartment till the afternoon, but he received his cronies, ashe said, in his dressing-room. Isabel had quite taken her placein the class so designated, which, for the rest, included the oldman's son, his physician, his personal servant, and even MissStackpole. Mrs. Touchett did not figure in the list, and this wasan obstacle the less to Isabel's finding her host alone. He sat ina complicated mechanical chair, at the open window of hisroom, looking westward over the park and the river, with hisnewspapers and letters piled up beside him, his toilet freshlyand minutely made, and his smooth, speculative face composedto benevolent expectation.

She approached her point directly. "I think I ought to let youknow that Lord Warburton has asked me to marry him. I sup-pose I ought to tell my aunt; but it seems best to tell you first."

The old man expressed no surprise, but thanked her for theconfidence she showed him. "Do you mind telling me whetheryou accepted him?" he then enquired.

"I've not answered him definitely yet; I've taken a little timeto think of it, because that seems more respectful. But I shallnot accept him."

Mr. Touchett made no comment upon this; he had the air ofthinking that, whatever interest he might take in the matterfrom the point of view of sociability, he had no active voice in

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it. "Well, I told you you'd be a success over here. Americansare highly appreciated."

"Very highly indeed," said Isabel. "But at the cost of seemingboth tasteless and ungrateful, I don't think I can marry LordWarburton."

"Well," her uncle went on, "of course an old man can't judgefor a young lady. I'm glad you didn't ask me before you madeup your mind. I suppose I ought to tell you," he added slowly,but as if it were not of much consequence, "that I've known allabout it these three days."

"About Lord Warburton's state of mind?""About his intentions, as they say here. He wrote me a very

pleasant letter, telling me all about them. Should you like tosee his letter?" the old man obligingly asked.

"Thank you; I don't think I care about that. But I'm glad hewrote to you; it was right that he should, and he would be cer-tain to do what was right."

"Ah well, I guess you do like him!" Mr. Touchett declared."You needn't pretend you don't."

"I like him extremely; I'm very free to admit that. But I don'twish to marry any one just now."

"You think some one may come along whom you may like bet-ter. Well, that's very likely," said Mr. Touchett, who appearedto wish to show his kindness to the girl by easing off her de-cision, as it were, and finding cheerful reasons for it.

"I don't care if I don't meet any one else. I like Lord Warbur-ton quite well enough." she fell into that appearance of a sud-den change of point of view with which she sometimes startledand even displeased her interlocutors.

Her uncle, however, seemed proof against either of these im-pressions. "He's a very fine man," he resumed in a tone whichmight have passed for that of encouragement. "His letter wasone of the pleasantest I've received for some weeks. I supposeone of the reasons I liked it was that it was all about you; thatis all except the part that was about himself. I suppose he toldyou all that."

"He would have told me everything I wished to ask him," Isa-bel said.

"But you didn't feel curious?"

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"My curiosity would have been idle—once I had determinedto decline his offer."

"You didn't find it sufficiently attractive?" Mr. Touchettenquired.

She was silent a little. "I suppose it was that," she presentlyadmitted. "But I don't know why."

"Fortunately ladies are not obliged to give reasons," said heruncle. "There's a great deal that's attractive about such anidea; but I don't see why the English should want to entice usaway from our native land. I know that we try to attract themover there, but that's because our population is insufficient.Here, you know, they're rather crowded. However, I presumethere's room for charming young ladies everywhere."

"There seems to have been room here for you," said Isabel,whose eyes had been wandering over the large pleasure-spaces of the park.

Mr. Touchett gave a shrewd, conscious smile. "There's roomeverywhere, my dear, if you'll pay for it. I sometimes think I'vepaid too much for this. Perhaps you also might have to pay toomuch."

"Perhaps I might," the girl replied.That suggestion gave her something more definite to rest on

than she had found in her own thoughts, and the fact of this as-sociation of her uncle's mild acuteness with her dilemmaseemed to prove that she was concerned with the natural andreasonable emotions of life and not altogether a victim to intel-lectual eagerness and vague ambitions—ambitions reachingbeyond Lord Warburton's beautiful appeal, reaching tosomething indefinable and possibly not commendable. In so faras the indefinable had an influence upon Isabel's behaviour atthis juncture, it was not the conception, even unformulated, ofa union with Caspar Goodwood; for however she might haveresisted conquest at her English suitor's large quiet hands shewas at least as far removed from the disposition to let theyoung man from Boston take positive possession of her. Thesentiment in which She sought refuge after reading his letterwas a critical view of his having come abroad; for it was part ofthe influence he had upon her that he seemed to deprive her ofthe sense of freedom. There was a disagreeably strong push, akind of hardness of presence, in his way of rising before her.

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She had been haunted at moments by the image, by thedanger, of his disapproval and had wondered—a considerationshe had never paid in equal degree to any one else—whetherhe would like what she did. The difficulty was that more thanany man she had ever known, more than poor Lord Warburton(she had begun now to give his lordship the benefit of this epi-thet), Caspar Goodwood expressed for her an energy—and shehad already felt it as a power that was of his very nature. Itwas in no degree a matter of his "advantages"—it was a matterof the spirit that sat in his clear-burning eyes like some tirelesswatcher at a window. She might like it or not, but he insisted,ever, with his whole weight and force: even in one's usual con-tact with him one had to reckon with that. The idea of a dimin-ished liberty was particularly disagreeable to her at present,since she had just given a sort of personal accent to her inde-pendence by looking so straight at Lord Warburton's big bribeand yet turning away from it. Sometimes Caspar Goodwoodhad seemed to range himself on the side of her destiny, to bethe stubbornest fact she knew; she said to herself at such mo-ments that she might evade him for a time, but that she mustmake terms with him at last—terms which would be certain tobe favourable to himself. Her impulse had been to avail herselfof the things that helped her to resist such an obligation; andthis impulse had been much concerned in her eager accept-ance of her aunt's invitation, which had come to her at an hourwhen she expected from day to day to see Mr. Goodwood andwhen she was glad to have an answer ready for something shewas sure he would say to her. When she had told him at Al-bany, on the evening of Mrs. Touchett's visit, that she couldn'tthen discuss difficult questions, dazzled as she was by thegreat immediate opening of her aunt's offer of "Europe," he de-clared that this was no answer at all; and it was now to obtaina better one that he was following her across the sea. To say toherself that he was a kind of grim fate was well enough for afanciful young woman who was able to take much for grantedin him; but the reader has a right to a nearer and a clearerview.

He was the son of a proprietor of well-known cotton-mills inMassachusetts—a gentleman who had accumulated a consider-able fortune in the exercise of this industry. Caspar at present

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managed the works, and with a judgement and a temperwhich, in spite of keen competition and languid years, had kepttheir prosperity from dwindling. He had received the betterpart of his education at Harvard College, where, however, hehad gained renown rather as a gymnast and an oarsman thanas a gleaner of more dispersed knowledge. Later on he hadlearned that the finer intelligence too could vault and pull andstrain—might even, breaking the record, treat itself to rare ex-ploits. He had thus discovered in himself a sharp eye for themystery of mechanics, and had invented an improvement in thecotton-spinning process which was now largely used and wasknown by his name. You might have seen it in the newspapersin connection with this fruitful contrivance; assurance of whichhe had given to Isabel by showing her in the columns of theNew York Interviewer an exhaustive article on the Goodwoodpatent—an article not prepared by Miss Stackpole, friendly asshe had proved herself to his more sentimental interests. Therewere intricate, bristling things he rejoiced in; he liked to or-ganise, to contend, to administer; he could make people workhis will, believe in him, march before him and justify him. Thiswas the art, as they said, of managing men —which rested, inhim, further, on a bold though brooding ambition. It struckthose who knew him well that he might do greater things thancarry on a cotton-factory; there was nothing cottony about Cas-par Goodwood, and his friends took for granted that he wouldsomehow and somewhere write himself in bigger letters. But itwas as if something large and confused, something dark andugly, would have to call upon him: he was not after all in har-mony with mere smug peace and greed and gain, an order ofthings of which the vital breath was ubiquitous advertisement.It pleased Isabel to believe that he might have ridden, on aplunging steed, the whirlwind of a great war—a war like theCivil strife that had overdarkened her conscious childhood andhis ripening youth.

She liked at any rate this idea of his being by character andin fact a mover of men—liked it much better than some otherpoints in his nature and aspect. She cared nothing for hiscotton-mill— the Goodwood patent left her imagination abso-lutely cold. She wished him no ounce less of his manhood, butshe sometimes thought he would be rather nicer if he looked,

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for instance, a little differently. His jaw was too square and setand his figure too straight and stiff: these things suggested awant of easy consonance with the deeper rhythms of life. Thenshe viewed with reserve a habit he had of dressing always inthe same manner; it was not apparently that he wore the sameclothes continually, for, on the contrary, his garments had away of looking rather too new. But they all seemed of the samepiece; the figure, the stuff, was so drearily usual. She had re-minded herself more than once that this was a frivolous objec-tion to a person of his importance; and then she had amendedthe rebuke by saying that it would be a frivolous objection onlyif she were in love with him. She was not in love with him andtherefore might criticise his small defects as well as hisgreat—which latter consisted in the collective reproach of hisbeing too serious, or, rather, not of his being so, since onecould never be, but certainly of his seeming so. He showed hisappetites and designs too simply and artlessly; when one wasalone with him he talked too much about the same subject, andwhen other people were present he talked too little about any-thing. And yet he was of supremely strong, clean make—whichwas so much she saw the different fitted parts of him as shehad seen, in museums and portraits, the different fitted partsof armoured warriors—in plates of steel handsomely inlaid withgold. It was very strange: where, ever, was any tangible linkbetween her impression and her act? Caspar Goodwood hadnever corresponded to her idea of a delightful person, and shesupposed that this was why he left her so harshly critical.When, however, Lord Warburton, who not only did correspondwith it, but gave an extension to the term, appealed to her ap-proval, she found herself still unsatisfied. It was certainlystrange.

The sense of her incoherence was not a help to answeringMr. Goodwood's letter, and Isabel determined to leave it awhile unhonoured. If he had determined to persecute her hemust take the consequences; foremost among which was hisbeing left to perceive how little it charmed her that he shouldcome down to Gardencourt. She was already liable to the in-cursions of one suitor at this place, and though it might bepleasant to be appreciated in opposite quarters there was akind of grossness in entertaining two such passionate pleaders

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at once, even in a case where the entertainment should consistof dismissing them. She made no reply to Mr. Goodwood; butat the end of three days she wrote to Lord Warburton, and theletter belongs to our history.

DEAR LORD WARBURTON—A great deal of earnest thoughthas not led me to change my mind about the suggestion youwere so kind as to make me the other day. I am not, I am reallyand truly not, able to regard you in the light of a companion forlife; or to think of your home—your various homes—as thesettled seat of my existence. These things cannot be reasonedabout, and I very earnestly entreat you not to return to the sub-ject we discussed so exhaustively. We see our lives from ourown point of view; that is the privilege of the weakest andhumblest of us; and I shall never be able to see mine in themanner you proposed. Kindly let this suffice you, and do methe justice to believe that I have given your proposal the deeplyrespectful consideration it deserves. It is with this very greatregard that I remain sincerely yours,

ISABEL ARCHER.While the author of this missive was making up her mind to

dispatch it Henrietta Stackpole formed a resolve which was ac-companied by no demur. She invited Ralph Touchett to take awalk with her in the garden, and when he had assented withthat alacrity which seemed constantly to testify to his high ex-pectations, she informed him that she had a favour to ask ofhim. It may be admitted that at this information the young manflinched; for we know that Miss Stackpole had struck him asapt to push an advantage. The alarm was unreasoned,however; for he was clear about the area of her indiscretion aslittle as advised of its vertical depth, and he made a very civilprofession of the desire to serve her. He was afraid of her andpresently told her so. "When you look at me in a certain waymy knees knock together, my faculties desert me; I'm filledwith trepidation and I ask only for strength to execute yourcommands. You've an address that I've never encountered inany woman."

"Well," Henrietta replied good-humouredly, "if I had notknown before that you were trying somehow to abash me Ishould know it now. Of course I'm easy game—I was broughtup with such different customs and ideas. I'm not used to your

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arbitrary standards, and I've never been spoken to in Americaas you have spoken to me. If a gentleman conversing with meover there were to speak to me like that I shouldn't know whatto make of it. We take everything more naturally over there,and, after all, we're a great deal more simple. I admit that; I'mvery simple myself. Of course if you choose to laugh at me forit you're very welcome; but I think on the whole I would ratherbe myself than you. I'm quite content to be myself; I don't wantto change. There are plenty of people that appreciate me justas I am. It's true they're nice fresh free-born Americans!" Hen-rietta had lately taken up the tone of helpless innocence andlarge concession. "I want you to assist me a little," she wenton. "I don't care in the least whether I amuse you while you doso; or, rather, I'm perfectly willing your amusement should beyour reward. I want you to help me about Isabel."

"Has she injured you?" Ralph asked."If she had I shouldn't mind, and I should never tell you.

What I'm afraid of is that she'll injure herself.""I think that's very possible," said Ralph.His companion stopped in the garden-walk, fixing on him

perhaps the very gaze that unnerved him. "That too wouldamuse you, I suppose. The way you do say things! I neverheard any one so indifferent."

"To Isabel? Ah, not that!""Well, you're not in love with her, I hope.""How can that be, when I'm in love with Another?""You're in love with yourself, that's the Other!" Miss Stack-

pole declared. "Much good may it do you! But if you wish to beserious once in your life here's a chance; and if you really carefor your cousin here's an opportunity to prove it. I don't expectyou to understand her; that's too much to ask. But you needn'tdo that to grant my favour. I'll supply the necessaryintelligence."

"I shall enjoy that immensely!" Ralph exclaimed. "I'll beCaliban and you shall be Ariel."

"You're not at all like Caliban, because you're sophisticated,and Caliban was not. But I'm not talking about imaginary char-acters; I'm talking about Isabel. Isabel's intensely real. What Iwish to tell you is that I find her fearfully changed."

"Since you came, do you mean?"

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"Since I came and before I came. She's not the same as sheonce so beautifully was."

"As she was in America?""Yes, in America. I suppose you know she comes from there.

She can't help it, but she does.""Do you want to change her back again?""Of course I do, and I want you to help me.""Ah," said Ralph, "I'm only Caliban; I'm not Prospero.""You were Prospero enough to make her what she has be-

come. You've acted on Isabel Archer since she came here, Mr.Touchett."

"I, my dear Miss Stackpole? Never in the world. Isabel Arch-er has acted on me—yes; she acts on every one. But I've beenabsolutely passive."

"You're too passive then. You had better stir yourself and becareful. Isabel's changing every day; she's drifting away— rightout to sea. I've watched her and I can see it. She's not thebright American girl she was. She's taking different views, adifferent colour, and turning away from her old ideals. I wantto save those ideals, Mr. Touchett, and that's where you comein."

"Not surely as an ideal?""Well, I hope not," Henrietta replied promptly. "I've got a

fear in my heart that she's going to marry one of these fellEuropeans, and I want to prevent it.

"Ah, I see," cried Ralph; "and to prevent it you want me tostep in and marry her?"

"Not quite; that remedy would be as bad as the disease, foryou're the typical, the fell European from whom I wish to res-cue her. No; I wish you to take an interest in another person—a young man to whom she once gave great encouragement andwhom she now doesn't seem to think good enough. He's a thor-oughly grand man and a very dear friend of mine, and I wishvery much you would invite him to pay a visit here."

Ralph was much puzzled by this appeal, and it is perhaps notto the credit of his purity of mind that he failed to look at it atfirst in the simplest light. It wore, to his eyes, a tortuous air,and his fault was that he was not quite sure that anything inthe world could really be as candid as this request of MissStackpole's appeared. That a young woman should demand

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that a gentleman whom she described as her very dear friendshould be furnished with an opportunity to make himself agree-able to another young woman, a young woman whose attentionhad wandered and whose charms were greater—this was ananomaly which for the moment challenged all his ingenuity ofinterpretation. To read between the lines was easier than tofollow the text, and to suppose that Miss Stackpole wished thegentleman invited to Gardencourt on her own account was thesign not so much of a vulgar as of an embarrassed mind. Evenfrom this venial act of vulgarity, however, Ralph was saved,and saved by a force that I can only speak of as inspiration.With no more outward light on the subject than he already pos-sessed he suddenly acquired the conviction that it would be asovereign injustice to the correspondent of the Interviewer toassign a dishonourable motive to any act of hers. This convic-tion passed into his mind with extreme rapidity; it was perhapskindled by the pure radiance of the young lady's imperturbablegaze. He returned this challenge a moment, consciously, resist-ing an inclination to frown as one frowns in the presence of lar-ger luminaries. "Who's the gentleman you speak of?"

"Mr. Caspar Goodwood—of Boston. He has been extremelyattentive to Isabel—just as devoted to her as he can live. Hehas followed her out here and he's at present in London. I don'tknow his address, but I guess I can obtain it."

"I've never heard of him," said Ralph."Well, I suppose you haven't heard of every one. I don't be-

lieve he has ever heard of you; but that's no reason why Isabelshouldn't marry him."

Ralph gave a mild ambiguous laugh. "What a rage you havefor marrying people! Do you remember how you wanted tomarry me the other day?"

"I've got over that. You don't know how to take such ideas.Mr. Goodwood does, however; and that's what I like about him.He's a splendid man and a perfect gentleman, and Isabelknows it."

"Is she very fond of him?""If she isn't she ought to be. He's simply wrapped up in her.""And you wish me to ask him here," said Ralph reflectively."It would be an act of true hospitality."

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"Caspar Goodwood," Ralph continued—"it's rather a strikingname."

"I don't care anything about his name. It might be EzekielJenkins, and I should say the same. He's the only man I haveever seen whom I think worthy of Isabel."

"You're a very devoted friend," said Ralph."Of course I am. If you say that to pour scorn on me I don't

care.""I don't say it to pour scorn on you; I'm very much struck

with it.""You're more satiric than ever, but I advise you not to laugh

at Mr. Goodwood.""I assure you I'm very serious; you ought to understand that,"

said Ralph.In a moment his companion understood it. "I believe you are;

now you're too serious.""You're difficult to please.""Oh, you're very serious indeed. You won't invite Mr.

Goodwood.""I don't know," said Ralph. "I'm capable of strange things.

Tell me a little about Mr. Goodwood. What's he like?""He's just the opposite of you. He's at the head of a cotton-

factory; a very fine one.""Has he pleasant manners?" asked Ralph."Splendid manners—in the American style.""Would he be an agreeable member of our little circle?""I don't think he'd care much about our little circle. He'd con-

centrate on Isabel.""And how would my cousin like that?""Very possibly not at all. But it will be good for her. It will

call back her thoughts.""Call them back—from where?""From foreign parts and other unnatural places. Three

months ago she gave Mr. Goodwood every reason to supposehe was acceptable to her, and it's not worthy of Isabel to goback on a real friend simply because she has changed thescene. I've changed the scene too, and the effect of it has beento make me care more for my old associations than ever. It'smy belief that the sooner Isabel changes it back again the bet-ter. I know her well enough to know that she would never be

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truly happy over here, and I wish her to form some strongAmerican tie that will act as a preservative."

"Aren't you perhaps a little too much in a hurry?" Ralph en-quired. "Don't you think you ought to give her more of achance in poor old England?"

"A chance to ruin her bright young life? One's never toomuch in a hurry to save a precious human creature fromdrowning."

"As I understand it then," said Ralph, "you wish me to pushMr. Goodwood overboard after her. Do you know," he added,"that I've never heard her mention his name?"

Henrietta gave a brilliant smile. "I'm delighted to hear that;it proves how much she thinks of him."

Ralph appeared to allow that there was a good deal in this,and he surrendered to thought while his companion watchedhim askance. "If I should invite Mr. Goodwood," he finally said,"it would be to quarrel with him."

"Don't do that; he'd prove the better man.""You certainly are doing your best to make me hate him! I

really don't think I can ask him. I should be afraid of beingrude to him."

"It's just as you please," Henrietta returned. "I had no ideayou were in love with her yourself."

"Do you really believe that?" the young man asked with liftedeyebrows.

"That's the most natural speech I've ever heard you make! Ofcourse I believe it," Miss Stackpole ingeniously said.

"Well," Ralph concluded, "to prove to you that you're wrongI'll invite him. It must be of course as a friend of yours."

"It will not be as a friend of mine that he'll come; and it willnot be to prove to me that I'm wrong that you'll ask him—butto prove it to yourself!"

These last words of Miss Stackpole's (on which the twopresently separated) contained an amount of truth which RalphTouchett was obliged to recognise; but it so far took the edgefrom too sharp a recognition that, in spite of his suspecting itwould be rather more indiscreet to keep than to break hispromise, he wrote Mr. Goodwood a note of six lines, expressingthe pleasure it would give Mr. Touchett the elder that heshould join a little party at Gardencourt, of which Miss

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Stackpole was a valued member. Having sent his letter (to thecare of a banker whom Henrietta suggested) he waited in somesuspense. He had heard this fresh formidable figure named forthe first time; for when his mother had mentioned on her ar-rival that there was a story about the girl's having an "admirer"at home, the idea had seemed deficient in reality and he hadtaken no pains to ask questions the answers to which would in-volve only the vague or the disagreeable. Now, however, thenative admiration of which his cousin was the object had be-come more concrete; it took the form of a young man who hadfollowed her to London, who was interested in a cotton-milland had manners in the most splendid of the American styles.Ralph had two theories about this intervenes. Either his pas-sion was a sentimental fiction of Miss Stackpole's (there wasalways a sort of tacit understanding among women, born of thesolidarity of the sex, that they should discover or invent loversfor each other), in which case he was not to be feared andwould probably not accept the invitation; or else he would ac-cept the invitation and in this event prove himself a creaturetoo irrational to demand further consideration. The latterclause of Ralph's argument might have seemed incoherent; butit embodied his conviction that if Mr. Goodwood were inter-ested in Isabel in the serious manner described by Miss Stack-pole he would not care to present himself at Gardencourt on asummons from the latter lady. "On this supposition," said Ral-ph, "he must regard her as a thorn on the stem of his rose; asan intercessor he must find her wanting in tact."

Two days after he had sent his invitation he received a veryshort note from Caspar Goodwood, thanking him for it, regret-ting that other engagements made a visit to Gardencourt im-possible and presenting many compliments to Miss Stackpole.Ralph handed the note to Henrietta, who, when she had readit, exclaimed: "Well, I never have heard of anything so stiff!"

"I'm afraid he doesn't care so much about my cousin as yousuppose," Ralph observed.

"No, it's not that; it's some subtler motive. His nature's verydeep. But I'm determined to fathom it, and I shall write to himto know what he means."

His refusal of Ralph's overtures was vaguely disconcerting;from the moment he declined to come to Gardencourt our

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friend began to think him of importance. He asked himselfwhat it signified to him whether Isabel's admirers should bedesperadoes or laggards; they were not rivals of his and wereperfectly welcome to act out their genius. Nevertheless he feltmuch curiosity as to the result of Miss Stackpole's promisedenquiry into the causes of Mr. Goodwood's stiffness—a curios-ity for the present ungratified, inasmuch as when he asked herthree days later if she had written to London she was obligedto confess she had written in vain. Mr. Goodwood had notreplied.

"I suppose he's thinking it over," she said; "he thinkseverything over; he's not really at all impetuous. But I'm accus-tomed to having my letters answered the same day." Shepresently proposed to Isabel, at all events, that they shouldmake an excursion to London together. "If I must tell thetruth," she observed, "I'm not seeing much at this place, and Ishouldn't think you were either. I've not even seen that aristo-crat— what's his name?—Lord Washburton. He seems to letyou severely alone."

"Lord Warburton's coming to-morrow, I happen to know,"replied her friend, who had received a note from the master ofLockleigh in answer to her own letter. "You'll have every op-portunity of turning him inside out."

"Well, he may do for one letter, but what's one letter whenyou want to write fifty? I've described all the scenery in this vi-cinity and raved about all the old women and donkeys. You maysay what you please, scenery doesn't make a vital letter. I mustgo back to London and get some impressions of real life. I wasthere but three days before I came away, and that's hardlytime to get in touch."

As Isabel, on her journey from New York to Gardencourt, hadseen even less of the British capital than this, it appeared ahappy suggestion of Henrietta's that the two should go thitheron a visit of pleasure. The idea struck Isabel as charming; hewas curious of the thick detail of London, which had alwaysloomed large and rich to her. They turned over their schemestogether and indulged in visions of romantic hours. They wouldstay at some picturesque old inn—one of the inns described byDickens— and drive over the town in those delightful hansoms.Henrietta was a literary woman, and the great advantage of

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being a literary woman was that you could go everywhere anddo everything. They would dine at a coffee-house and go after-wards to the play; they would frequent the Abbey and the Brit-ish Museum and find out where Doctor Johnson had lived, andGoldsmith and Addison. Isabel grew eager and presently un-veiled the bright vision to Ralph, who burst into a fit oflaughter which scarce expressed the sympathy she haddesired.

"It's a delightful plan," he said. "I advise you to go to theDuke's Head in Covent Garden, an easy, informal, old-fash-ioned place, and I'll have you put down at my club."

"Do you mean it's improper?" Isabel asked. "Dear me, isn'tanything proper here? With Henrietta surely I may go any-where; she isn't hampered in that way. She has travelled overthe whole American continent and can at least find her wayabout this minute island."

"Ah then," said Ralph, "let me take advantage of her protec-tion to go up to town as well. I may never have a chance totravel so safely!"

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Chapter 14Miss Stackpole would have prepared to start immediately; butIsabel, as we have seen, had been notified that Lord Warburtonwould come again to Gardencourt, and she believed it her dutyto remain there and see him. For four or five days he had madeno response to her letter; then he had written, very briefly, tosay he would come to luncheon two days later. There wassomething in these delays and postponements that touched thegirl and renewed her sense of his desire to be considerate andpatient, not to appear to urge her too grossly; a considerationthe more studied that she was so sure he "really liked" her. Isa-bel told her uncle she had written to him, mentioning also hisintention of coming; and the old man, in consequence, left hisroom earlier than usual and made his appearance at the twoo'clock repast. This was by no means an act of vigilance on hispart, but the fruit of a benevolent belief that his being of thecompany might help to cover any conjoined straying away incase Isabel should give their noble visitor another hearing.That personage drove over from Lockleigh and brought the eld-er of his sisters with him, a measure presumably dictated byreflexions of the same order as Mr. Touchett's. The two visitorswere introduced to Miss Stackpole, who, at luncheon, occupieda seat adjoining Lord Warburton's. Isabel, who was nervousand had no relish for the prospect of again arguing the ques-tion he had so prematurely opened, could not help admiring hisgood-humoured self-possession, which quite disguised thesymptoms of that preoccupation with her presence it was nat-ural she should suppose him to feel. He neither looked at hernor spoke to her, and the only sign of his emotion was that heavoided meeting her eyes. He had plenty of talk for the others,however, and he appeared to eat his luncheon with discrimina-tion and appetite. Miss Molyneux, who had a smooth, nun-likeforehead and wore a large silver cross suspended from her

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neck, was evidently preoccupied with Henrietta Stackpole,upon whom her eyes constantly rested in a manner suggestinga conflict between deep alienation and yearning wonder. Of thetwo ladies from Lockleigh she was the one Isabel had likedbest; there was such a world of hereditary quiet in her. Isabelwas sure moreover that her mild forehead and silver cross re-ferred to some weird Anglican mystery—some delightful rein-stitution perhaps of the quaint office of the canoness. Shewondered what Miss Molyneux would think of her if she knewMiss Archer had refused her brother; and then she felt surethat Miss Molyneux would never know—that Lord Warburtonnever told her such things. He was fond of her and kind to her,but on the whole he told her little. Such, at least, was Isabel'stheory; when, at table, she was not occupied in conversationshe was usually occupied in forming theories about her neigh-bours. According to Isabel, if Miss Molyneux should ever learnwhat had passed between Miss Archer and Lord Warburtonshe would probably be shocked at such a girl's failure to rise;or no, rather (this was our heroine's last position) she wouldimpute to the young American but a due consciousness ofinequality.

Whatever Isabel might have made of her opportunities, at allevents, Henrietta Stackpole was by no means disposed to neg-lect those in which she now found herself immersed. "Do youknow you're the first lord I've ever seen?" she said verypromptly to her neighbour. "I suppose you think I'm awfullybenighted."

"You've escaped seeing some very ugly men," Lord Warbur-ton answered, looking a trifle absently about the table.

"Are they very ugly? They try to make us believe in Americathat they're all handsome and magnificent and that they wearwonderful robes and crowns."

"Ah, the robes and crowns are gone out of fashion," said LordWarburton, "like your tomahawks and revolvers."

"I'm sorry for that; I think an aristocracy ought to be splen-did," Henrietta declared. "If it's not that, what is it?"

"Oh, you know, it isn't much, at the best," her neighbour al-lowed. "Won't you have a potato?"

"I don't care much for these European potatoes. I shouldn'tknow you from an ordinary American gentleman."

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"Do talk to me as if I were one," said Lord Warburton. "Idon't see how you manage to get on without potatoes; youmust find so few things to eat over here."

Henrietta was silent a little; there was a chance he was notsincere. "I've had hardly any appetite since I've been here," shewent on at last; "so it doesn't much matter. I don't approve ofyou, you know; I feel as if I ought to tell you that."

"Don't approve of me?""Yes; I don't suppose any one ever said such a thing to you

before, did they? I don't approve of lords as an institution. Ithink the world has got beyond them—far beyond."

"Oh, so do I. I don't approve of myself in the least. Some-times it comes over me—how I should object to myself if I werenot myself, don't you know? But that's rather good, by theway—not to be vainglorious."

"Why don't you give it up then?" Miss Stackpole enquired."Give up—a—?" asked Lord Warburton, meeting her harsh in-

flexion with a very mellow one."Give up being a lord.""Oh, I'm so little of one! One would really forget all about it if

you wretched Americans were not constantly reminding one.However, I do think of giving it up, the little there is left of it,one of these days."

"I should like to see you do it!" Henrietta exclaimed rathergrimly.

"I'll invite you to the ceremony; we'll have a supper and adance."

"Well," said Miss Stackpole, "I like to see all sides. I don't ap-prove of a privileged class, but I like to hear what they have tosay for themselves."

"Mighty little, as you see!""I should like to draw you out a little more," Henrietta contin-

ued. "But you're always looking away. You're afraid of meetingmy eye. I see you want to escape me."

"No, I'm only looking for those despised potatoes.""Please explain about that young lady—your sister—then. I

don't understand about her. Is she a Lady?""She's a capital good girl.""I don't like the way you say that—as if you wanted to change

the subject. Is her position inferior to yours?"

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"We neither of us have any position to speak of; but she's bet-ter off than I, because she has none of the bother."

"Yes, she doesn't look as if she had much bother. I wish I hadas little bother as that. You do produce quiet people over here,whatever else you may do."

"Ah, you see one takes life easily, on the whole," said LordWarburton. "And then you know we're very dull. Ah, we can bedull when we try!"

"I should advise you to try something else. I shouldn't knowwhat to talk to your sister about; she looks so different. Is thatsilver cross a badge?"

"A badge?""A sign of rank."Lord Warburton's glance had wandered a good deal, but at

this it met the gaze of his neighbour. "Oh yes," he answered ina moment; "the women go in for those things. The silver crossis worn by the eldest daughters of Viscounts." Which was hisharmless revenge for having occasionally had his credulity tooeasily engaged in America. After luncheon he proposed to Isa-bel to come into the gallery and look at the pictures; andthough she knew he had seen the pictures twenty times shecomplied without criticising this pretext. Her conscience nowwas very easy; ever since she sent him her letter she had feltparticularly light of spirit. He walked slowly to the end of thegallery, staring at its contents and saying nothing; and then hesuddenly broke out: "I hoped you wouldn't write to me thatway."

"It was the only way, Lord Warburton," said the girl. "Do tryand believe that."

"If I could believe it of course I should let you alone. But wecan't believe by willing it; and I confess I don't understand. Icould understand your disliking me; that I could understandwell. But that you should admit you do—"

"What have I admitted?" Isabel interrupted, turning slightlypale.

"That you think me a good fellow; isn't that it?" She saidnothing, and he went on: "You don't seem to have any reason,and that gives me a sense of injustice."

"I have a reason, Lord Warburton." She said it in a tone thatmade his heart contract.

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"I should like very much to know it.""I'll tell you some day when there's more to show for it.""Excuse my saying that in the mean time I must doubt of it.""You make me very unhappy," said Isabel."I'm not sorry for that; it may help you to know how I feel.

Will you kindly answer me a question?" Isabel made no audibleassent, but he apparently saw in her eyes something that gavehim courage to go on. "Do you prefer some one else?"

"That's a question I'd rather not answer.""Ah, you do then!" her suitor murmured with bitterness.The bitterness touched her, and she cried out: "You're mis-

taken! I don't."He sat down on a bench, unceremoniously, doggedly, like a

man in trouble; leaning his elbows on his knees and staring atthe floor. "I can't even be glad of that," he said at last, throw-ing himself back against the wall; "for that would be anexcuse."

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "An excuse? Must I ex-cuse myself?"

He paid, however, no answer to the question. Another ideahad come into his head. "Is it my political opinions? Do youthink I go too far?"

"I can't object to your political opinions, because I don't un-derstand them."

"You don't care what I think!" he cried, getting up. "It's allthe same to you."

Isabel walked to the other side of the gallery and stood thereshowing him her charming back, her light slim figure, thelength of her white neck as she bent her head, and the densityof her dark braids. She stopped in front of a small picture as iffor the purpose of examining it; and there was something soyoung and free in her movement that her very pliancy seemedto mock at him. Her eyes, however, saw nothing; they had sud-denly been suffused with tears. In a moment he followed her,and by this time she had brushed her tears away; but when sheturned round her face was pale and the expression of her eyesstrange. "That reason that I wouldn't tell you—I'll tell it youafter all. It's that I can't escape my fate."

"Your fate?""I should try to escape it if I were to marry you."

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"I don't understand. Why should not that be your fate as wellas anything else?"

"Because it's not," said Isabel femininely. "I know it's not. It'snot my fate to give up—I know it can't be."

Poor Lord Warburton stared, an interrogative point in eithereye. "Do you call marrying me giving up?"

"Not in the usual sense. It's getting—getting—getting a greatdeal. But it's giving up other chances."

"Other chances for what?""I don't mean chances to marry," said Isabel, her colour

quickly coming back to her. And then she stopped, lookingdown with a deep frown, as if it were hopeless to attempt tomake her meaning clear.

"I don't think it presumptuous in me to suggest that you'llgain more than you'll lose," her companion observed.

"I can't escape unhappiness," said Isabel. "In marrying you Ishall be trying to."

"I don't know whether you'd try to, but you certainly would:that I must in candour admit!" he exclaimed with an anxiouslaugh.

"I mustn't—I can't!" cried the girl."Well, if you're bent on being miserable I don't see why you

should make me so. Whatever charms a life of misery may havefor you, it has none for me."

"I'm not bent on a life of misery," said Isabel. "I've alwaysbeen intensely determined to be happy, and I've often believedI should be. I've told people that; you can ask them. But itcomes over me every now and then that I can never be happyin any extraordinary way; not by turning away, by separatingmyself."

"By separating yourself from what?""From life. From the usual chances and dangers, from what

most people know and suffer."Lord Warburton broke into a smile that almost denoted hope.

"Why, my dear Miss Archer," he began to explain with the mostconsiderate eagerness, "I don't offer you any exoneration fromlife or from any chances or dangers whatever. I wish I could;depend upon it I would! For what do you take me, pray?Heaven help me, I'm not the Emperor of China! All I offer youis the chance of taking the common lot in a comfortable sort of

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way. The common lot? Why, I'm devoted to the common lot!Strike an alliance with me, and I promise you that you shallhave plenty of it. You shall separate from nothingwhatever—not even from your friend Miss Stackpole."

"She'd never approve of it," said Isabel, trying to smile andtake advantage of this side-issue; despising herself too, not alittle, for doing so.

"Are we speaking of Miss Stackpole?" his lordship asked im-patiently. "I never saw a person judge things on such theoreticgrounds."

"Now I suppose you're speaking of me," said Isabel with hu-mility; and she turned away again, for she saw Miss Molyneuxenter the gallery, accompanied by Henrietta and by Ralph.

Lord Warburton's sister addressed him with a certain timid-ity and reminded him she ought to return home in time for tea,as she was expecting company to partake of it. He made no an-swer—apparently not having heard her; he was preoccupied,and with good reason. Miss Molyneux—as if he had been Roy-alty—stood like a lady-in-waiting.

"Well, I never, Miss Molyneux!" said Henrietta Stackpole. "IfI wanted to go he'd have to go. If I wanted my brother to do athing he'd have to do it."

"Oh, Warburton does everything one wants," Miss Molyneuxanswered with a quick, shy laugh. "How very many picturesyou have!" she went on, turning to Ralph.

"They look a good many, because they're all put together,"said Ralph. "But it's really a bad way."

"Oh, I think it's so nice. I wish we had a gallery at Lockleigh.I'm so very fond of pictures," Miss Molyneux went on, persist-ently, to Ralph, as if she were afraid Miss Stackpole would ad-dress her again. Henrietta appeared at once to fascinate and tofrighten her.

"Ah yes, pictures are very convenient," said Ralph, who ap-peared to know better what style of reflexion was acceptable toher.

"They're so very pleasant when it rains," the young lady con-tinued. "It has rained of late so very often."

"I'm sorry you're going away, Lord Warburton," said Henri-etta. "I wanted to get a great deal more out of you."

"I'm not going away," Lord Warburton answered.

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"Your sister says you must. In America the gentlemen obeythe ladies."

"I'm afraid we have some people to tea," said Miss Molyneux,looking at her brother.

"Very good, my dear. We'll go.""I hoped you would resist!" Henrietta exclaimed. "I wanted to

see what Miss Molyneux would do.""I never do anything," said this young lady."I suppose in your position it's sufficient for you to exist!"

Miss Stackpole returned. "I should like very much to see you athome."

"You must come to Lockleigh again," said Miss Molyneux,very sweetly, to Isabel, ignoring this remark of Isabel's friend.Isabel looked into her quiet eyes a moment, and for that mo-ment seemed to see in their grey depths the reflexion ofeverything she had rejected in rejecting Lord Warburton—thepeace, the kindness, the honour, the possessions, a deep secur-ity and a great exclusion. She kissed Miss Molyneux and thenshe said: "I'm afraid I can never come again."

"Never again?""I'm afraid I'm going away.""Oh, I'm so very sorry," said Miss Molyneux. "I think that's so

very wrong of you."Lord Warburton watched this little passage; then he turned

away and stared at a picture. Ralph, leaning against the railbefore the picture with his hands in his pockets, had for themoment been watching him.

"I should like to see you at home," said Henrietta, whom LordWarburton found beside him. "I should like an hour's talk withyou; there are a great many questions I wish to ask you."

"I shall be delighted to see you," the proprietor of Lockleighanswered; "but I'm certain not to be able to answer many ofyour questions. When will you come?"

"Whenever Miss Archer will take me. We're thinking of goingto London, but we'll go and see you first. I'm determined to getsome satisfaction out of you."

"If it depends upon Miss Archer I'm afraid you won't getmuch. She won't come to Lockleigh; she doesn't like the place."

"She told me it was lovely!" said Henrietta.

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Lord Warburton hesitated. "She won't come, all the same.You had better come alone," he added.

Henrietta straightened herself, and her large eyes expanded."Would you make that remark to an English lady?" she en-quired with soft asperity.

Lord Warburton stared. "Yes, if I liked her enough.""You'd be careful not to like her enough. If Miss Archer won't

visit your place again it's because she doesn't want to take me.I know what she thinks of me, and I suppose you think thesame— that I oughtn't to bring in individuals." Lord Warburtonwas at a loss; he had not been made acquainted with MissStackpole's professional character and failed to catch her allu-sion. "Miss Archer has been warning you!" she therefore wenton.

"Warning me?""Isn't that why she came off alone with you here—to put you

on your guard?""Oh dear, no," said Lord Warburton brazenly; "our talk had

no such solemn character as that.""Well, you've been on your guard—intensely. I suppose it's

natural to you; that's just what I wanted to observe. And so,too, Miss Molyneux—she wouldn't commit herself. You havebeen warned, anyway," Henrietta continued, addressing thisyoung lady; "but for you it wasn't necessary."

"I hope not," said Miss Molyneux vaguely."Miss Stackpole takes notes," Ralph soothingly explained.

"She's a great satirist; she sees through us all and she worksus up."

"Well, I must say I never have had such a collection of badmaterial!" Henrietta declared, looking from Isabel to Lord War-burton and from this nobleman to his sister and to Ralph."There's something the matter with you all; you're as dismal asif you had got a bad cable."

"You do see through us, Miss Stackpole," said Ralph in a lowtone, giving her a little intelligent nod as he led the party outof the gallery. "There's something the matter with us all."

Isabel came behind these two; Miss Molyneux, who decidedlyliked her immensely, had taken her arm, to walk beside herover the polished floor. Lord Warburton strolled on the otherside with his hands behind him and his eyes lowered. For some

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moments he said nothing; and then, "Is it true you're going toLondon?" he asked.

"I believe it has been arranged.""And when shall you come back?""In a few days; but probably for a very short time. I'm going

to Paris with my aunt.""When, then, shall I see you again?""Not for a good while," said Isabel. "But some day or other, I

hope.""Do you really hope it?""Very much."He went a few steps in silence; then he stopped and put out

his hand. "Good-bye.""Good-bye," said Isabel.Miss Molyneux kissed her again, and she let the two depart.

After it, without rejoining Henrietta and Ralph, she retreatedto her own room; in which apartment, before dinner, she wasfound by Mrs. Touchett, who had stopped on her way to thesalon. "I may as well tell you," said that lady, "that your unclehas informed me of your relations with Lord Warburton."

Isabel considered. "Relations? They're hardly relations.That's the strange part of it: he has seen me but three or fourtimes."

"Why did you tell your uncle rather than me?" Mrs. Touchettdispassionately asked.

Again the girl hesitated. "Because he knows Lord Warburtonbetter."

"Yes, but I know you better.""I'm not sure of that," said Isabel, smiling."Neither am I, after all; especially when you give me that

rather conceited look. One would think you were awfullypleased with yourself and had carried off a prize! I supposethat when you refuse an offer like Lord Warburton's it's be-cause you expect to do something better."

"Ah, my uncle didn't say that!" cried Isabel, smiling still.

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Chapter 15It had been arranged that the two young ladies should proceedto London under Ralph's escort, though Mrs. Touchett lookedwith little favour on the plan. It was just the sort of plan, shesaid, that Miss Stackpole would be sure to suggest, and she en-quired if the correspondent of the Interviewer was to take theparty to stay at her favourite boarding-house.

"I don't care where she takes us to stay, so long as there'slocal colour," said Isabel. "That's what we're going to Londonfor."

"I suppose that after a girl has refused an English lord shemay do anything," her aunt rejoined. "After that one needn'tstand on trifles."

"Should you have liked me to marry Lord Warburton?" Isabelenquired.

"Of course I should.""I thought you disliked the English so much.""So I do; but it's all the greater reason for making use of

them.""Is that your idea of marriage?" And Isabel ventured to add

that her aunt appeared to her to have made very little use ofMr. Touchett.

"Your uncle's not an English nobleman," said Mrs. Touchett,"though even if he had been I should still probably have takenup my residence in Florence."

"Do you think Lord Warburton could make me any betterthan I am?" the girl asked with some animation. "I don't meanI'm too good to improve. I mean that I don't love Lord Warbur-ton enough to marry him."

"You did right to refuse him then," said Mrs. Touchett in hersmallest, sparest voice. "Only, the next great offer you get, Ihope you'll manage to come up to your standard."

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"We had better wait till the offer comes before we talk aboutit. I hope very much I may have no more offers for the present.They upset me completely."

"You probably won't be troubled with them if you adopt per-manently the Bohemian manner of life. However, I've promisedRalph not to criticise."

"I'll do whatever Ralph says is right," Isabel returned. "I'veunbounded confidence in Ralph."

"His mother's much obliged to you!" this lady dryly laughed."It seems to me indeed she ought to feel it!" Isabel irrepress-

ibly answered.Ralph had assured her that there would be no violation of de-

cency in their paying a visit—the little party of three—to thesights of the metropolis; but Mrs. Touchett took a differentview. Like many ladies of her country who had lived a longtime in Europe, she had completely lost her native tact on suchpoints, and in her reaction, not in itself deplorable, against theliberty allowed to young persons beyond the seas, had fallen in-to gratuitous and exaggerated scruples. Ralph accompaniedtheir visitors to town and established them at a quiet inn in astreet that ran at right angles to Piccadilly. His first idea hadbeen to take them to his father's house in Winchester Square, alarge, dull mansion which at this period of the year wasshrouded in silence and brown holland; but he bethought him-self that, the cook being at Gardencourt, there was no one inthe house to get them their meals, and Pratt's Hotel accord-ingly became their resting-place. Ralph, on his side, foundquarters in Winchester Square, having a "den" there of whichhe was very fond and being familiar with deeper fears thanthat of a cold kitchen. He availed himself largely indeed of theresources of Pratt's Hotel, beginning his day with an early visitto his fellow travellers, who had Mr. Pratt in person, in a largebulging white waistcoat, to remove their dish-covers. Ralphturned up, as he said, after breakfast, and the little party madeout a scheme of entertainment for the day. As London wears inthe month of September a face blank but for its smears of priorservice, the young man, who occasionally took an apologetictone, was obliged to remind his companion, to Miss Stackpole'shigh derision, that there wasn't a creature in town.

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"I suppose you mean the aristocracy are absent," Henriettaanswered; "but I don't think you could have a better proof thatif they were absent altogether they wouldn't be missed. Itseems to me the place is about as full as it can be. There's noone here, of course, but three or four millions of people. Whatis it you call them—the lower-middle class? They're only thepopulation of London, and that's of no consequence."

Ralph declared that for him the aristocracy left no void thatMiss Stackpole herself didn't fill, and that a more contentedman was nowhere at that moment to be found. In this he spokethe truth, for the stale September days, in the huge half-emptytown, had a charm wrapped in them as a coloured gem mightbe wrapped in a dusty cloth. When he went home at night tothe empty house in Winchester Square, after a chain of hourswith his comparatively ardent friends, he wandered into thebig dusky dining-room, where the candle he took from the hall-table, after letting himself in, constituted the only illumination.The square was still, the house was still; when he raised one ofthe windows of the dining-room to let in the air he heard theslow creak of the boots of a lone constable. His own step, inthe empty place, seemed loud and sonorous; some of the car-pets had been raised, and whenever he moved he roused a mel-ancholy echo. He sat down in one of the armchairs; the bigdark dining table twinkled here and there in the small candle-light; the pictures on the wall, all of them very brown, lookedvague and incoherent. There was a ghostly presence as of din-ners long since digested, of table-talk that had lost its actual-ity. This hint of the supernatural perhaps had something to dowith the fact that his imagination took a flight and that he re-mained in his chair a long time beyond the hour at which heshould have been in bed; doing nothing, not even reading theevening paper. I say he did nothing, and I maintain the phrasein the face of the fact that he thought at these moments of Isa-bel. To think of Isabel could only be for him an idle pursuit,leading to nothing and profiting little to any one. His cousinhad not yet seemed to him so charming as during these daysspent in sounding, tourist-fashion, the deeps and shallows ofthe metropolitan element. Isabel was full of premises, conclu-sions, emotions; if she had come in search of local colour shefound it everywhere. She asked more questions than he could

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answer, and launched brave theories, as to historic cause andsocial effect, that he was equally unable to accept or to refute.The party went more than once to the British Museum and tothat brighter palace of art which reclaims for antique varietyso large an area of a monotonous suburb; they spent a morningin the Abbey and went on a penny-steamer to the Tower; theylooked at pictures both in public and private collections and saton various occasions beneath the great trees in KensingtonGardens. Henrietta proved an indestructible sight-seer and amore lenient judge than Ralph had ventured to hope. She hadindeed many disappointments, and London at large sufferedfrom her vivid remembrance of the strong points of the Americ-an civic idea; but she made the best of its dingy dignities andonly heaved an occasional sigh and uttered a desultory "Well!"which led no further and lost itself in retrospect. The truth wasthat, as she said herself, she was not in her element. "I've not asympathy with inanimate objects," she remarked to Isabel atthe National Gallery; and she continued to suffer from the mea-greness of the glimpse that had as yet been vouchsafed to herof the inner life. Landscapes by Turner and Assyrian bulls werea poor substitute for the literary dinner-parties at which shehad hoped to meet the genius and renown of Great Britain.

"Where are your public men, where are your men and womenof intellect?" she enquired of Ralph, standing in the middle ofTrafalgar Square as if she had supposed this to be a placewhere she would naturally meet a few. "That's one of them onthe top of the column, you say—Lord Nelson. Was he a lordtoo? Wasn't he high enough, that they had to stick him a hun-dred feet in the air? That's the past—I don't care about thepast; I want to see some of the leading minds of the present. Iwon't say of the future, because I don't believe much in yourfuture." Poor Ralph had few leading minds among his acquaint-ance and rarely enjoyed the pleasure of buttonholing acelebrity; a state of things which appeared to Miss Stackpoleto indicate a deplorable want of enterprise. "If I were on theother side I should call," she said, "and tell the gentleman,whoever he might be, that I had heard a great deal about himand had come to see for myself. But I gather from what you saythat this is not the custom here. You seem to have plenty ofmeaningless customs, but none of those that would help along.

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We are in advance, certainly. I suppose I shall have to give upthe social side altogether;" and Henrietta, though she wentabout with her guidebook and pencil and wrote a letter to theInterviewer about the Tower (in which she described the exe-cution of Lady Jane Grey), had a sad sense of falling below hermission.

The incident that had preceded Isabel's departure fromGardencourt left a painful trace in our young woman's mind:when she felt again in her face, as from a recurrent wave, thecold breath of her last suitor's surprise, she could only muffleher head till the air cleared. She could not have done less thanwhat she did; this was certainly true. But her necessity, all thesame, had been as graceless as some physical act in a strainedattitude, and she felt no desire to take credit for her conduct.Mixed with this imperfect pride, nevertheless, was a feeling offreedom which in itself was sweet and which, as she wanderedthrough the great city with her ill-matched companions, occa-sionally throbbed into odd demonstrations. When she walked inKensington Gardens she stopped the children (mainly of thepoorer sort) whom she saw playing on the grass; she askedthem their names and gave them sixpence and, when theywere pretty, kissed them. Ralph noticed these quaint charities;he noticed everything she did. One afternoon, that his compan-ions might pass the time, he invited them to tea in WinchesterSquare, and he had the house set in order as much as possiblefor their visit. There was another guest to meet them, an ami-able bachelor, an old friend of Ralph's who happened to be intown and for whom prompt commerce with Miss Stackpole ap-peared to have neither difficulty nor dread. Mr. Bantling, astout, sleek, smiling man of forty, wonderfully dressed, univer-sally informed and incoherently amused, laughed immoderatelyat everything Henrietta said, gave her several cups of tea, ex-amined in her society the bric-a-brac, of which Ralph had aconsiderable collection, and afterwards, when the host pro-posed they should go out into the square and pretend it was afete-champetre, walked round the limited enclosure severaltimes with her and, at a dozen turns of their talk, bounded re-sponsive—as with a positive passion for argument—to her re-marks upon the inner life.

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"Oh, I see; I dare say you found it very quiet at Gardencourt.Naturally there's not much going on there when there's such alot of illness about. Touchett's very bad, you know; the doctorshave forbidden his being in England at all, and he has onlycome back to take care of his father. The old man, I believe,has half a dozen things the matter with him. They call it gout,but to my certain knowledge he has organic disease so de-veloped that you may depend upon it he'll go, some day soon,quite quickly. Of course that sort of thing makes a dreadfullydull house; I wonder they have people when they can do solittle for them. Then I believe Mr. Touchett's always squabblingwith his wife; she lives away from her husband, you know, inthat extraordinary American way of yours. If you want a housewhere there's always something going on, I recommend you togo down and stay with my sister, Lady Pensil, in Bedfordshire.I'll write to her to-morrow and I'm sure she'll be delighted toask you. I know just what you want— you want a house wherethey go in for theatricals and picnics and that sort of thing. Mysister's just that sort of woman; she's always getting upsomething or other and she's always glad to have the sort ofpeople who help her. I'm sure she'll ask you down by return ofpost: she's tremendously fond of distinguished people andwriters. She writes herself, you know; but I haven't readeverything she has written. It's usually poetry, and I don't go inmuch for poetry—unless it's Byron. I suppose you think a greatdeal of Byron in America," Mr. Bantling continued, expandingin the stimulating air of Miss Stackpole's attention, bringing uphis sequences promptly and changing his topic with an easyturn of hand. Yet he none the less gracefully kept in sight ofthe idea, dazzling to Henrietta, of her going to stay with LadyPensil in Bedfordshire. "I understand what you want; you wantto see some genuine English sport. The Touchetts aren't Eng-lish at all, you know; they have their own habits, their own lan-guage, their own food—some odd religion even, I believe, oftheir own. The old man thinks it's wicked to hunt, I'm told. Youmust get down to my sister's in time for the theatricals, and I'msure she'll be glad to give you a part. I'm sure you act well; Iknow you're very clever. My sister's forty years old and hasseven children, but she's going to play the principal part. Plain

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as she is she makes up awfully well—I will say for her. Ofcourse you needn't act if you don't want to."

In this manner Mr. Bantling delivered himself while theystrolled over the grass in Winchester Square, which, althoughit had been peppered by the London soot, invited the tread tolinger. Henrietta thought her blooming, easy-voiced bachelor,with his impressibility to feminine merit and his splendid rangeof suggestion, a very agreeable man, and she valued the oppor-tunity he offered her. "I don't know but I would go, if your sis-ter should ask me. I think it would be my duty. What do youcall her name?"

"Pensil. It's an odd name, but it isn't a bad one.""I think one name's as good as another. But what's her

rank?"."Oh, she's a baron's wife; a convenient sort of rank. You're

fine enough and you're not too fine.""I don't know but what she'd be too fine for me. What do you

call the place she lives in—Bedfordshire?""She lives away in the northern corner of it. It's a tiresome

country, but I dare say you won't mind it. I'll try and run downwhile you're there."

All this was very pleasant to Miss Stackpole, and she wassorry to be obliged to separate from Lady Pensil's obligingbrother. But it happened that she had met the day before, inPiccadilly, some friends whom she had not seen for a year: theMiss Climbers, two ladies from Wilmington, Delaware, who hadbeen travelling on the Continent and were now preparing to re-embark. Henrietta had had a long interview with them on thePiccadilly pavement, and though the three ladies all talked atonce they had not exhausted their store. It had been agreedtherefore that Henrietta should come and dine with them intheir lodgings in Jermyn Street at six o'clock on the morrow,and she now bethought herself of this engagement. She pre-pared to start for Jermyn Street, taking leave first of RalphTouchett and Isabel, who, seated on garden chairs in anotherpart of the enclosure, were occupied—if the term may beused—with an exchange of amenities less pointed than thepractical colloquy of Miss Stackpole and Mr. Bantling. When ithad been settled between Isabel and her friend that theyshould be reunited at some reputable hour at Pratt's Hotel,

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Ralph remarked that the latter must have a cab. She couldn'twalk all the way to Jermyn Street.

"I suppose you mean it's improper for me to walk alone!"Henrietta exclaimed. "Merciful powers, have I come to this?"

"There's not the slightest need of your walking alone," Mr.Bantling gaily interposed. "I should be greatly pleased to gowith you."

"I simply meant that you'd be late for dinner," Ralph re-turned. "Those poor ladies may easily believe that we refuse, atthe last, to spare you."

"You had better have a hansom, Henrietta," said Isabel."I'll get you a hansom if you'll trust me," Mr. Bantling went

on."We might walk a little till we meet one.""I don't see why I shouldn't trust him, do you?" Henrietta en-

quired of Isabel."I don't see what Mr. Bantling could do to you," Isabel obli-

gingly answered; "but, if you like, we'll walk with you till youfind your cab."

"Never mind; we'll go alone. Come on, Mr. Bantling, and takecare you get me a good one."

Mr. Bantling promised to do his best, and the two took theirdeparture, leaving the girl and her cousin together in thesquare, over which a clear September twilight had now begunto gather. It was perfectly still; the wide quadrangle of duskyhouses showed lights in none of the windows, where the shut-ters and blinds were closed; the pavements were a vacant ex-panse, and, putting aside two small children from a neighbour-ing slum, who, attracted by symptoms of abnormal animationin the interior, poked their faces between the rusty rails of theenclosure, the most vivid object within sight was the big redpillar-post on the southeast corner.

"Henrietta will ask him to get into the cab and go with her toJermyn Street," Ralph observed. He always spoke of MissStackpole as Henrietta.

"Very possibly," said his companion."Or rather, no, she won't," he went on. "But Bantling will ask

leave to get in.""Very likely again. I'm glad very they're such good friends."

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"She has made a conquest. He thinks her a brilliant woman.It may go far," said Ralph.

Isabel was briefly silent. "I call Henrietta a very brilliant wo-man, but I don't think it will go far. They would never reallyknow each other. He has not the least idea what she really is,and she has no just comprehension of Mr. Bantling."

"There's no more usual basis of union than a mutual misun-derstanding. But it ought not to be so difficult to understandBob Bantling," Ralph added. "He is a very simple organism."

"Yes, but Henrietta's a simpler one still. And, pray, what am Ito do?" Isabel asked, looking about her through the fadinglight, in which the limited landscape-gardening of the squaretook on a large and effective appearance. "I don't imagine thatyou'll propose that you and I, for our amusement, shall driveabout London in a hansom."

"There's no reason we shouldn't stay here—if you don't dis-like it. It's very warm; there will he half an hour yet beforedark; and if you permit it I'll light a cigarette."

"You may do what you please," said Isabel, "if you'll amuseme till seven o'clock. I propose at that hour to go back and par-take of a simple and solitary repast—two poached eggs and amuffin— at Pratt's Hotel."

"Mayn't I dine with you?" Ralph asked."No, you'll dine at your club."They had wandered back to their chairs in the centre of the

square again, and Ralph had lighted his cigarette. It wouldhave given him extreme pleasure to be present in person at themodest little feast she had sketched; but in default of this heliked even being forbidden. For the moment, however, he likedimmensely being alone with her, in the thickening dusk, in thecentre of the multitudinous town; it made her seem to dependupon him and to be in his power. This power he could exert butvaguely; the best exercise of it was to accept her decisions sub-missively which indeed there was already an emotion in doing."Why won't you let me dine with you?" he demanded after apause.

"Because I don't care for it.""I suppose you're tired of me.""I shall be an hour hence. You see I have the gift of

foreknowledge."

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"Oh, I shall be delightful meanwhile," said Ralph.But he said nothing more, and as she made no rejoinder they

sat some time in a stillness which seemed to contradict hispromise of entertainment. It seemed to him she was preoccu-pied, and he wondered what she was thinking about; therewere two or three very possible subjects. At last he spokeagain. "Is your objection to my society this evening caused byyour expectation of another visitor?"

She turned her head with a glance of her clear, fair eyes."Another visitor? What visitor should I have?"

He had none to suggest; which made his question seem tohimself silly as well as brutal. "You've a great many friendsthat I don't know. You've a whole past from which I was per-versely excluded."

"You were reserved for my future. You must remember thatmy past is over there across the water. There's none of it herein London."

"Very good, then, since your future is seated beside you. Cap-ital thing to have your future so handy." And Ralph lighted an-other cigarette and reflected that Isabel probably meant shehad received news that Mr. Caspar Goodwood had crossed toParis. After he had lighted his cigarette he puffed it a while,and then he resumed. "I promised just now to be very amusing;but you see I don't come up to the mark, and the fact is there'sa good deal of temerity in one's undertaking to amuse a personlike you. What do you care for my feeble attempts? You'vegrand ideas—you've a high standard in such matters. I ought atleast to bring in a band of music or a company ofmountebanks."

"One mountebank's enough, and you do very well. Pray goon, and in another ten minutes I shall begin to laugh."

"I assure you I'm very serious," said Ralph. "You do really aska great deal."

"I don't know what you mean. I ask nothing.""You accept nothing," said Ralph. She coloured, and now sud-

denly it seemed to her that she guessed his meaning. But whyshould he speak to her of such things? He hesitated a little andthen he continued: "There's something I should like very muchto say to you. It's a question I wish to ask. It seems to me I've aright to ask it, because I've a kind of interest in the answer."

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"Ask what you will," Isabel replied gently, "and I'll try to sat-isfy you."

"Well then, I hope you won't mind my saying that Warburtonhas told me of something that has passed between you."

Isabel suppressed a start; she sat looking at her open fan."Very good; I suppose it was natural he should tell you."

"I have his leave to let you know he has done so. He hassome hope still," said Ralph.

"Still?""He had it a few days ago.""I don't believe he has any now," said the girl."I'm very sorry for him then; he's such an honest man.""Pray, did he ask you to talk to me?""No, not that. But he told me because he couldn't help it.

We're old friends, and he was greatly disappointed. He sent mea line asking me to come and see him, and I drove over toLockleigh the day before he and his sister lunched with us. Hewas very heavy-hearted; he had just got a letter from you."

"Did he show you the letter?" asked Isabel with momentaryloftiness.

"By no means. But he told me it was a neat refusal. I wasvery sorry for him," Ralph repeated.

For some moments Isabel said nothing; then at last, "Do youknow how often he had seen me?" she enquired. "Five or sixtimes."

"That's to your glory.""It's not for that I say it.""What then do you say it for. Not to prove that poor

Warburton's state of mind's superficial, because I'm pretty sureyou don't think that."

Isabel certainly was unable to say she thought it; butpresently she said something else. "If you've not been reques-ted by Lord Warburton to argue with me, then you're doing itdisinterestedly —or for the love of argument."

"I've no wish to argue with you at all. I only wish to leave youalone. I'm simply greatly interested in your own sentiments."

"I'm greatly obliged to you!" cried Isabel with a slightlynervous laugh.

"Of course you mean that I'm meddling in what doesn't con-cern me. But why shouldn't I speak to you of this matter

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without annoying you or embarrassing myself? What's the useof being your cousin if I can't have a few privileges? What's theuse of adoring you without hope of a reward if I can't have afew compensations? What's the use of being ill and disabledand restricted to mere spectatorship at the game of life if Ireally can't see the show when I've paid so much for my ticket?Tell me this," Ralph went on while she listened to him withquickened attention. "What had you in mind when you refusedLord Warburton?"

"What had I in mind?""What was the logic—the view of your situation—that dic-

tated so remarkable an act?""I didn't wish to marry him—if that's logic.""No, that's not logic—and I knew that before. It's really noth-

ing, you know. What was it you said to yourself? You certainlysaid more than that."

Isabel reflected a moment, then answered with a question ofher own. "Why do you call it a remarkable act? That's whatyour mother thinks too."

"Warburton's such a thorough good sort; as a man, I considerhe has hardly a fault. And then he's what they call here no endof a swell. He has immense possessions, and his wife would bethought a superior being. He unites the intrinsic and the ex-trinsic advantages."

Isabel watched her cousin as to see how far he would go. "Irefused him because he was too perfect then. I'm not perfectmyself, and he's too good for me. Besides, his perfection wouldirritate me."

"That's ingenious rather than candid," said Ralph. "As a factyou think nothing in the world too perfect for you."

"Do you think I'm so good?""No, but you're exacting, all the same, without the excuse of

thinking yourself good. Nineteen women out of twenty,however, even of the most exacting sort, would have managedto do with Warburton. Perhaps you don't know how he hasbeen stalked."

"I don't wish to know. But it seems to me," said Isabel, "thatone day when we talked of him you mentioned odd things inhim." Ralph smokingly considered. "I hope that what I saidthen had no weight with you; for they were not faults, the

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things I spoke of: they were simply peculiarities of his position.If I had known he wished to marry you I'd never have alludedto them. I think I said that as regards that position he wasrather a sceptic. It would have been in your power to make hima believer."

"I think not. I don't understand the matter, and I'm not con-scious of any mission of that sort. You're evidently disappoin-ted," Isabel added, looking at her cousin with rueful gentle-ness. "You'd have liked me to make such a marriage."

"Not in the least. I'm absolutely without a wish on the sub-ject. I don't pretend to advise you, and I content myself withwatching you—with the deepest interest."

She gave rather a conscious sigh. "I wish I could be as inter-esting to myself as I am to you!"

"There you're not candid again; you're extremely interestingto yourself. Do you know, however," said Ralph, "that if you'vereally given Warburton his final answer I'm rather glad it hasbeen what it was. I don't mean I'm glad for you, and still less ofcourse for him. I'm glad for myself."

"Are you thinking of proposing to me?""By no means. From the point of view I speak of that would

be fatal; I should kill the goose that supplies me with the ma-terial of my inimitable omelettes. I use that animal as the sym-bol of my insane illusions. What I mean is that I shall have thethrill of seeing what a young lady does who won't marry LordWarburton."

"That's what your mother counts upon too," said Isabel."Ah, there will be plenty of spectators! We shall hang on the

rest of your career. I shall not see all of it, but I shall probablysee the most interesting years. Of course if you were to marryour friend you'd still have a career—a very decent, in fact avery brilliant one. But relatively speaking it would be a littleprosaic. It would be definitely marked out in advance; it wouldbe wanting in the unexpected. You know I'm extremely fond ofthe unexpected, and now that you've kept the game in yourhands I depend on your giving us some grand example of it."

"I don't understand you very well," said Isabel, "but I do sowell enough to be able to say that if you look for grand ex-amples of anything from me I shall disappoint you."

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"You'll do so only by disappointing yourself and that will gohard with you!"

To this she made no direct reply; there was an amount oftruth in it that would bear consideration. At last she said ab-ruptly: "I don't see what harm there is in my wishing not to tiemyself. I don't want to begin life by marrying. There are otherthings a woman can do."

"There's nothing she can do so well. But you're of course somany-sided."

"If one's two-sided it's enough," said Isabel."You're the most charming of polygons!" her companion

broke out. At a glance from his companion, however, he be-came grave, and to prove it went on: "You want to seelife—you'll be hanged if you don't, as the young men say."

"I don't think I want to see it as the young men want to see it.But I do want to look about me."

"You want to drain the cup of experience.""No, I don't wish to touch the cup of experience. It's a

poisoned drink! I only want to see for myself.""You want to see, but not to feel," Ralph remarked."I don't think that if one's a sentient being one can make the

distinction. I'm a good deal like Henrietta. The other day whenI asked her if she wished to marry she said: 'Not till I've seenEurope!' I too don't wish to marry till I've seen Europe."

"You evidently expect a crowned head will be struck withyou."

"No, that would be worse than marrying Lord Warburton.But it's getting very dark," Isabel continued, "and I must gohome." She rose from her place, but Ralph only sat still andlooked at her. As he remained there she stopped, and they ex-changed a gaze that was full on either side, but especially onRalph's, of utterances too vague for words.

"You've answered my question," he said at last. "You've toldme what I wanted. I'm greatly obliged to you."

"It seems to me I've told you very little.""You've told me the great thing: that the world interests you

and that you want to throw yourself into it."Her silvery eyes shone a moment in the dusk. "I never said

that." "I think you meant it. Don't repudiate it. It's so fine!"

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"I don't know what you're trying to fasten upon me, for I'mnot in the least an adventurous spirit. Women are not likemen."

Ralph slowly rose from his seat and they walked together tothe gate of the square. "No," he said; "women rarely boast oftheir courage. Men do so with a certain frequency."

"Men have it to boast of!""Women have it too. You've a great deal.""Enough to go home in a cab to Pratt's Hotel, but not more."Ralph unlocked the gate, and after they had passed out he

fastened it. "We'll find your cab," he said; and as they turnedtoward a neighbouring street in which this quest might avail heasked her again if he mightn't see her safely to the inn.

"By no means," she answered; "you're very tired; you mustgo home and go to bed."

The cab was found, and he helped her into it, standing a mo-ment at the door. "When people forget I'm a poor creature I'moften incommoded," he said. "But it's worse when they remem-ber it!"

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Chapter 16She had had no hidden motive in wishing him not to take herhome; it simply struck her that for some days past she had con-sumed an inordinate quantity of his time, and the independentspirit of the American girl whom extravagance of aid places inan attitude that she ends by finding "affected" had made herdecide that for these few hours she must suffice to herself. Shehad moreover a great fondness for intervals of solitude, whichsince her arrival in England had been but meagrely met. It wasa luxury she could always command at home and she had wit-tingly missed it. That evening, however, an incident occurredwhich—had there been a critic to note it—would have taken allcolour from the theory that the wish to be quite by herself hadcaused her to dispense with her cousin's attendance. Seatedtoward nine o'clock in the dim illumination of Pratt's Hotel andtrying with the aid of two tall candles to lose herself in avolume she had brought from Gardencourt, she succeeded onlyto the extent of reading other words than those printed on thepage—words that Ralph had spoken to her that afternoon. Sud-denly the well-muffed knuckle of the waiter was applied to thedoor, which presently gave way to his exhibition, even as aglorious trophy, of the card of a visitor. When this mementohad offered to her fixed sight the name of Mr. Caspar Good-wood she let the man stand before her without signifying herwishes.

"Shall I show the gentleman up, ma'am?" he asked with aslightly encouraging inflexion.

Isabel hesitated still and while she hesitated glanced at themirror. "He may come in," she said at last; and waited for himnot so much smoothing her hair as girding her spirit.

Caspar Goodwood was accordingly the next moment shakinghands with her, but saying nothing till the servant had left theroom. "Why didn't you answer my letter?" he then asked in a

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quick, full, slightly peremptory tone—the tone of a man whosequestions were habitually pointed and who was capable ofmuch insistence.

She answered by a ready question, "How did you know I washere?"

"Miss Stackpole let me know," said Caspar Goodwood. "Shetold me you would probably be at home alone this evening andwould be willing to see me."

"Where did she see you—to tell you that?""She didn't see me; she wrote to me."Isabel was silent; neither had sat down; they stood there with

an air of defiance, or at least of contention. "Henrietta nevertold me she was writing to you," she said at last. "This is notkind of her."

"Is it so disagreeable to you to see me?" asked the youngman.

"I didn't expect it. I don't like such surprises.""But you knew I was in town; it was natural we should meet.""Do you call this meeting? I hoped I shouldn't see you. In so

big a place as London it seemed very possible.""It was apparently repugnant to you even to write to me," her

visitor went on.Isabel made no reply; the sense of Henrietta Stackpole's

treachery, as she momentarily qualified it, was strong withinher. "Henrietta's certainly not a model of all the delicacies!"she exclaimed with bitterness. "It was a great liberty to take."

"I suppose I'm not a model either—of those virtues or of anyothers. The fault's mine as much as hers."

As Isabel looked at him it seemed to her that his jaw had nev-er been more square. This might have displeased her, but shetook a different turn. "No, it's not your fault so much as hers.What you've done was inevitable, I suppose, for you."

"It was indeed!" cried Caspar Goodwood with a voluntarylaugh.

"And now that I've come, at any rate, mayn't I stay?""You may sit down, certainly."She went back to her chair again, while her visitor took the

first place that offered, in the manner of a man accustomed topay little thought to that sort of furtherance. "I've been hoping

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every day for an answer to my letter. You might have writtenme a few lines."

"It wasn't the trouble of writing that prevented me; I could aseasily have written you four pages as one. But my silence wasan intention," Isabel said. "I thought it the best thing."

He sat with his eyes fixed on hers while she spoke; then helowered them and attached them to a spot in the carpet as if hewere making a strong effort to say nothing but what he ought.He was a strong man in the wrong, and he was acute enoughto see that an uncompromising exhibition of his strength wouldonly throw the falsity of his position into relief. Isabel was notincapable of tasting any advantage of position over a person ofthis quality, and though little desirous to flaunt it in his faceshe could enjoy being able to say "You know you oughtn't tohave written to me yourself!" and to say it with an air oftriumph.

Caspar Goodwood raised his eyes to her own again; theyseemed to shine through the vizard of a helmet. He had astrong sense of justice and was ready any day in the year—overand above this— to argue the question of his rights. "You saidyou hoped never to hear from me again; I know that. But I nev-er accepted any such rule as my own. I warned you that youshould hear very soon."

"I didn't say I hoped NEVER to hear from you," said Isabel."Not for five years then; for ten years; twenty years. It's the

same thing.""Do you find it so? It seems to me there's a great difference. I

can imagine that at the end of ten years we might have a verypleasant correspondence. I shall have matured my epistolarystyle."

She looked away while she spoke these words, knowing themof so much less earnest a cast than the countenance of herlistener. Her eyes, however, at last came back to him, just ashe said very irrelevantly; "Are you enjoying your visit to youruncle?"

"Very much indeed." She dropped, but then she broke out."What good do you expect to get by insisting?"

"The good of not losing you."

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"You've no right to talk of losing what's not yours. And evenfrom your own point of view," Isabel added, "you ought to knowwhen to let one alone."

"I disgust you very much," said Caspar Goodwood gloomily;not as if to provoke her to compassion for a man conscious ofthis blighting fact, but as if to set it well before himself, so thathe might endeavour to act with his eyes on it.

"Yes, you don't at all delight me, you don't fit in, not in anyway, just now, and the worst is that your putting it to the proofin this manner is quite unnecessary." It wasn't certainly as ifhis nature had been soft, so that pin-pricks would draw bloodfrom it; and from the first of her acquaintance with him, and ofher having to defend herself against a certain air that he had ofknowing better what was good for her than she knew herself,she had recognised the fact that perfect frankness was herbest weapon. To attempt to spare his sensibility or to escapefrom him edgewise, as one might do from a man who hadbarred the way less sturdily—this, in dealing with CasparGoodwood, who would grasp at everything of every sort thatone might give him, was wasted agility. It was not that he hadnot susceptibilities, but his passive surface, as well as his act-ive, was large and hard, and he might always be trusted todress his wounds, so far as they required it, himself. She cameback, even for her measure of possible pangs and aches in him,to her old sense that he was naturally plated and steeled,armed essentially for aggression.

"I can't reconcile myself to that," he simply said. There was adangerous liberality about it; for she felt how open it was tohim to make the point that he had not always disgusted her.

"I can't reconcile myself to it either, and it's not the state ofthings that ought to exist between us. If you'd only try to ban-ish me from your mind for a few months we should be on goodterms again."

"I see. If I should cease to think of you at all for a prescribedtime, I should find I could keep it up indefinitely."

"Indefinitely is more than I ask. It's more even than I shouldlike."

"You know that what you ask is impossible," said the youngman, taking his adjective for granted in a manner she foundirritating.

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"Aren't you capable of making a calculated effort?" she de-manded. "You're strong for everything else; why shouldn't yoube strong for that?"

"An effort calculated for what?" And then as she hung fire,"I'm capable of nothing with regard to you," he went on, "butjust of being infernally in love with you. If one's strong oneloves only the more strongly."

"There's a good deal in that;" and indeed our young lady feltthe force of it—felt it thrown off, into the vast of truth and po-etry, as practically a bait to her imagination. But she promptlycame round. "Think of me or not, as you find most possible;only leave me alone."

"Until when?""Well, for a year or two.""Which do you mean? Between one year and two there's all

the difference in the world.""Call it two then," said Isabel with a studied effect of

eagerness."And what shall I gain by that?" her friend asked with no sign

of wincing."You'll have obliged me greatly.""And what will be my reward?""Do you need a reward for an act of generosity?""Yes, when it involves a great sacrifice.""There's no generosity without some sacrifice. Men don't un-

derstand such things. If you make the sacrifice you'll have allmy admiration."

"I don't care a cent for your admiration—not one straw, withnothing to show for it. When will you marry me? That's the onlyquestion."

"Never—if you go on making me feel only as I feel atpresent."

"What do I gain then by not trying to make you feelotherwise?"

"You'll gain quite as much as by worrying me to death!" Cas-par Goodwood bent his eyes again and gazed a while into thecrown of his hat. A deep flush overspread his face; she couldsee her sharpness had at last penetrated. This immediately hada value —classic, romantic, redeeming, what did she know? forher; "the strong man in pain" was one of the categories of the

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human appeal, little charm as he might exert in the given case."Why do you make me say such things to you?" she cried in atrembling voice. "I only want to be gentle—to be thoroughlykind. It's not delightful to me to feel people care for me and yetto have to try and reason them out of it. I think others alsoought to be considerate; we have each to judge for ourselves. Iknow you're considerate, as much as you can be; you've goodreasons for what you do. But I really don't want to marry, or totalk about it at all now. I shall probably never do it—no, never.I've a perfect right to feel that way, and it's no kindness to awoman to press her so hard, to urge her against her will. If Igive you pain I can only say I'm very sorry. It's not my fault; Ican't marry you simply to please you. I won't say that I shall al-ways remain your friend, because when women say that, inthese situations, it passes, I believe, for a sort of mockery. Buttry me some day."

Caspar Goodwood, during this speech, had kept his eyesfixed upon the name of his hatter, and it was not until sometime after she had ceased speaking that he raised them. Whenhe did so the sight of a rosy, lovely eagerness in Isabel's facethrew some confusion into his attempt to analyse her words."I'll go home—I'll go to-morrow—I'll leave you alone," hebrought out at last. "Only," he heavily said, "I hate to lose sightof you!"

"Never fear. I shall do no harm.""You'll marry some one else, as sure as I sit here," Caspar

Goodwood declared."Do you think that a generous charge?""Why not? Plenty of men will try to make you.""I told you just now that I don't wish to marry and that I al-

most certainly never shall.""I know you did, and I like your 'almost certainly'! I put no

faith in what you say.""Thank you very much. Do you accuse me of lying to shake

you off? You say very delicate things.""Why should I not say that? You've given me no pledge of

anything at all.""No, that's all that would be wanting!"

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"You may perhaps even believe you're safe—from wishing tobe. But you're not," the young man went on as if preparinghimself for the worst.

"Very well then. We'll put it that I'm not safe. Have it as youplease."

"I don't know, however," said Caspar Goodwood, "that mykeeping you in sight would prevent it."

"Don't you indeed? I'm after all very much afraid of you. Doyou think I'm so very easily pleased?" she asked suddenly,changing her tone.

"No—I don't; I shall try to console myself with that. But thereare a certain number of very dazzling men in the world, nodoubt; and if there were only one it would be enough. The mostdazzling of all will make straight for you. You'll be sure to takeno one who isn't dazzling."

"If you mean by dazzling brilliantly clever," Isabel said—"andI can't imagine what else you mean—I don't need the aid of aclever man to teach me how to live. I can find it out for myself."

"Find out how to live alone? I wish that, when you have,you'd teach me!"

She looked at him a moment; then with a quick smile, "Oh,you ought to marry!" she said.

He might be pardoned if for an instant this exclamationseemed to him to sound the infernal note, and it is not on re-cord that her motive for discharging such a shaft had been ofthe clearest. He oughtn't to stride about lean and hungry,however—she certainly felt THAT for him. "God forgive you!"he murmured between his teeth as he turned away.

Her accent had put her slightly in the wrong, and after a mo-ment she felt the need to right herself. The easiest way to do itwas to place him where she had been. "You do me great in-justice—you say what you don't know!" she broke out. "Ishouldn't be an easy victim—I've proved it."

"Oh, to me, perfectly.""I've proved it to others as well." And she paused a moment.

"I refused a proposal of marriage last week; what they call—nodoubt—a dazzling one."

"I'm very glad to hear it," said the young man gravely."It was a proposal many girls would have accepted; it had

everything to recommend it." Isabel had not proposed to

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herself to tell this story, but, now she had begun, the satisfac-tion of speaking it out and doing herself justice took possessionof her. "I was offered a great position and a great fortune—by aperson whom I like extremely."

Caspar watched her with intense interest. "Is he anEnglishman?"

"He's an English nobleman," said Isabel.Her visitor received this announcement at first in silence, but

at last said: "I'm glad he's disappointed.""Well then, as you have companions in misfortune, make the

best of it.""I don't call him a companion," said Casper grimly."Why not—since I declined his offer absolutely?""That doesn't make him my companion. Besides, he's an

Englishman.""And pray isn't an Englishman a human being?" Isabel asked."Oh, those people They're not of my humanity, and I don't

care what becomes of them.""You're very angry," said the girl. "We've discussed this mat-

ter quite enough.""Oh yes, I'm very angry. I plead guilty to that!"She turned away from him, walked to the open window and

stood a moment looking into the dusky void of the street,where a turbid gaslight alone represented social animation.For some time neither of these young persons spoke; Casparlingered near the chimney-piece with eyes gloomily attached.She had virtually requested him to go—he knew that; but at therisk of making himself odious he kept his ground. She was fartoo dear to him to be easily renounced, and he had crossed thesea all to wring from her some scrap of a vow. Presently sheleft the window and stood again before him. "You do me verylittle justice— after my telling you what I told you just now. I'msorry I told you—since it matters so little to you."

"Ah," cried the young man, "if you were thinking of ME whenyou did it!" And then he paused with the fear that she mightcontradict so happy a thought.

"I was thinking of you a little," said Isabel."A little? I don't understand. If the knowledge of what I feel

for you had any weight with you at all, calling it a 'little' is apoor account of it."

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Isabel shook her head as if to carry off a blunder. "I've re-fused a most kind, noble gentleman. Make the most of that."

"I thank you then," said Caspar Goodwood gravely. "I thankyou immensely."

"And now you had better go home.""May I not see you again?" he asked."I think it's better not. You'll be sure to talk of this, and you

see it leads to nothing.""I promise you not to say a word that will annoy you."Isabel reflected and then answered: "I return in a day or two

to my uncle's, and I can't propose to you to come there. Itwould be too inconsistent."

Caspar Goodwood, on his side, considered. "You must do mejustice too. I received an invitation to your uncle's more than aweek ago, and I declined it."

She betrayed surprise. "From whom was your invitation?""From Mr. Ralph Touchett, whom I suppose to be your cous-

in. I declined it because I had not your authorisation to acceptit. The suggestion that Mr. Touchett should invite me appearedto have come from Miss Stackpole."

"It certainly never did from me. Henrietta really goes veryfar," Isabel added.

"Don't be too hard on her—that touches ME.""No; if you declined you did quite right, and I thank you for

it." And she gave a little shudder of dismay at the thought thatLord Warburton and Mr. Goodwood might have met at Garden-court: it would have been so awkward for Lord Warburton.

"When you leave your uncle where do you go?" her compan-ion asked.

"I go abroad with my aunt—to Florence and other places."The serenity of this announcement struck a chill to the young

man's heart; he seemed to see her whirled away into circlesfrom which he was inexorably excluded. Nevertheless he wenton quickly with his questions. "And when shall you come backto America?"

"Perhaps not for a long time. I'm very happy here.""Do you mean to give up your country?""Don't be an infant!""Well, you'll be out of my sight indeed!" said Caspar

Goodwood.

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"I don't know," she answered rather grandly. "Theworld—with all these places so arranged and so touching eachother—comes to strike one as rather small."

"It's a sight too big for ME!" Caspar exclaimed with a simpli-city our young lady might have found touching if her face hadnot been set against concessions.

This attitude was part of a system, a theory, that she hadlately embraced, and to be thorough she said after a moment:"Don't think me unkind if I say it's just THAT—being out ofyour sight— that I like. If you were in the same place I shouldfeel you were watching me, and I don't like that—I like myliberty too much. If there's a thing in the world I'm fond of,"she went on with a slight recurrence of grandeur, "it's my per-sonal independence."

But whatever there might be of the too superior in thisspeech moved Caspar Goodwood's admiration; there was noth-ing he winced at in the large air of it. He had never supposedshe hadn't wings and the need of beautiful free movements—hewasn't, with his own long arms and strides, afraid of any forcein her. Isabel's words, if they had been meant to shock him,failed of the mark and only made him smile with the sense thathere was common ground. "Who would wish less to curtailyour liberty than I? What can give me greater pleasure than tosee you perfectly independent—doing whatever you like? It's tomake you independent that I want to marry you."

"That's a beautiful sophism," said the girl with a smile morebeautiful still.

"An unmarried woman—a girl of your age—isn't independent.There are all sorts of things she can't do. She's hampered atevery step."

"That's as she looks at the question," Isabel answered withmuch spirit. "I'm not in my first youth—I can do what Ichoose—I belong quite to the independent class. I've neitherfather nor mother; I'm poor and of a serious disposition; I'mnot pretty. I therefore am not bound to be timid and conven-tional; indeed I can't afford such luxuries. Besides, I try tojudge things for myself; to judge wrong, I think, is more hon-ourable than not to judge at all. I don't wish to be a mere sheepin the flock; I wish to choose my fate and know something ofhuman affairs beyond what other people think it compatible

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with propriety to tell me." She paused a moment, but not longenough for her companion to reply. He was apparently on thepoint of doing so when she went on: "Let me say this to you,Mr. Goodwood. You're so kind as to speak of being afraid of mymarrying. If you should hear a rumour that I'm on the point ofdoing so—girls are liable to have such things said aboutthem—remember what I have told you about my love of libertyand venture to doubt it."

There was something passionately positive in the tone inwhich she gave him this advice, and he saw a shining candourin her eyes that helped him to believe her. On the whole he feltreassured, and you might have perceived it by the manner inwhich he said, quite eagerly: "You want simply to travel for twoyears? I'm quite willing to wait two years, and you may do whatyou like in the interval. If that's all you want, pray say so. Idon't want you to be conventional; do I strike you as conven-tional myself? Do you want to improve your mind? Your mind'squite good enough for me; but if it interests you to wanderabout a while and see different countries I shall be delighted tohelp you in any way in my power."

"You're very generous; that's nothing new to me. The bestway to help me will be to put as many hundred miles of seabetween us as possible."

"One would think you were going to commit some atrocity!"said Caspar Goodwood.

"Perhaps I am. I wish to be free even to do that if the fancytakes me."

"Well then," he said slowly, "I'll go home." And he put out hishand, trying to look contented and confident.

Isabel's confidence in him, however, was greater than any hecould feel in her. Not that he thought her capable of commit-ting an atrocity; but, turn it over as he would, there wassomething ominous in the way she reserved her option. As shetook his hand she felt a great respect for him; she knew howmuch he cared for her and she thought him magnanimous.They stood so for a moment, looking at each other, united by ahand-clasp which was not merely passive on her side. "That'sright," she said very kindly, almost tenderly. "You'll lose noth-ing by being a reasonable man."

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"But I'll come back, wherever you are, two years hence," hereturned with characteristic grimness.

We have seen that our young lady was inconsequent, and atthis she suddenly changed her note. "Ah, remember, I promisenothing— absolutely nothing!" Then more softly, as if to helphim to leave her: "And remember too that I shall not be an easyvictim!"

"You'll get very sick of your independence.""Perhaps I shall; it's even very probable. When that day

comes I shall be very glad to see you."She had laid her hand on the knob of the door that led into

her room, and she waited a moment to see whether her visitorwould not take his departure. But he appeared unable to move;there was still an immense unwillingness in his attitude and asore remonstrance in his eyes. "I must leave you now," said Isa-bel; and she opened the door and passed into the other room.

This apartment was dark, but the darkness was tempered bya vague radiance sent up through the window from the court ofthe hotel, and Isabel could make out the masses of the fur-niture, the dim shining of the mirror and the looming of the bigfour-posted bed. She stood still a moment, listening, and at lastshe heard Caspar Goodwood walk out of the sitting-room andclose the door behind him. She stood still a little longer, andthen, by an irresistible impulse, dropped on her knees beforeher bed and hid her face in her arms.

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Chapter 17She was not praying; she was trembling—trembling all over.Vibration was easy to her, was in fact too constant with her,and she found herself now humming like a smitten harp. Sheonly asked, however, to put on the cover, to case herself againin brown holland, but she wished to resist her excitement, andthe attitude of devotion, which she kept for some time, seemedto help her to be still. She intensely rejoiced that Caspar Good-wood was gone; there was something in having thus got rid ofhim that was like the payment, for a stamped receipt, of somedebt too long on her mind. As she felt the glad relief she bowedher head a little lower; the sense was there, throbbing in herheart; it was part of her emotion, but it was a thing to beashamed of—it was profane and out of place. It was not forsome ten minutes that she rose from her knees, and even whenshe came back to the sitting-room her tremor had not quitesubsided. It had had, verily, two causes: part of it was to be ac-counted for by her long discussion with Mr. Goodwood, but itmight be feared that the rest was simply the enjoyment shefound in the exercise of her power. She sat down in the samechair again and took up her book, but without going throughthe form of opening the volume. She leaned back, with thatlow, soft, aspiring murmur with which she often uttered her re-sponse to accidents of which the brighter side was not superfi-cially obvious, and yielded to the satisfaction of having refusedtwo ardent suitors in a fortnight. That love of liberty of whichshe had given Caspar Goodwood so bold a sketch was as yet al-most exclusively theoretic; she had not been able to indulge iton a large scale. But it appeared to her she had donesomething; she had tasted of the delight, if not of battle, atleast of victory; she had done what was truest to her plan. Inthe glow of this consciousness the image of Mr. Goodwood tak-ing his sad walk homeward through the dingy town presented

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itself with a certain reproachful force; so that, as at the samemoment the door of the room was opened, she rose with an ap-prehension that he had come back. But it was only HenriettaStackpole returning from her dinner.

Miss Stackpole immediately saw that our young lady hadbeen "through" something, and indeed the discovery demandedno great penetration. She went straight up to her friend, whoreceived her without a greeting. Isabel's elation in having sentCaspar Goodwood back to America presupposed her being in amanner glad he had come to see her; but at the same time sheperfectly remembered Henrietta had had no right to set a trapfor her. "Has he been here, dear?" the latter yearningly asked.

Isabel turned away and for some moments answered nothing."You acted very wrongly," she declared at last.

"I acted for the best. I only hope you acted as well.""You're not the judge. I can't trust you," said Isabel.This declaration was unflattering, but Henrietta was much

too unselfish to heed the charge it conveyed; she cared only forwhat it intimated with regard to her friend. "Isabel Archer,"she observed with equal abruptness and solemnity, "if youmarry one of these people I'll never speak to you again!"

"Before making so terrible a threat you had better wait tillI'm asked," Isabel replied. Never having said a word to MissStackpole about Lord Warburton's overtures, she had now noimpulse whatever to justify herself to Henrietta by telling herthat she had refused that nobleman.

"Oh, you'll be asked quick enough, once you get off on theContinent. Annie Climber was asked three times in Italy—poorplain little Annie."

"Well, if Annie Climber wasn't captured why should I be?""I don't believe Annie was pressed; but you'll be.""That's a flattering conviction," said Isabel without alarm."I don't flatter you, Isabel, I tell you the truth!" cried her

friend. "I hope you don't mean to tell me that you didn't giveMr. Goodwood some hope."

"I don't see why I should tell you anything; as I said to youjust now, I can't trust you. But since you're so much interestedin Mr. Goodwood I won't conceal from you that he returns im-mediately to America."

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"You don't mean to say you've sent him off?" Henrietta al-most shrieked.

"I asked him to leave me alone; and I ask you the same, Hen-rietta." Miss Stackpole glittered for an instant with dismay,and then passed to the mirror over the chimney-piece and tookoff her bonnet. "I hope you've enjoyed your dinner," Isabelwent on.

But her companion was not to be diverted by frivolous pro-positions. "Do you know where you're going, Isabel Archer?"

"Just now I'm going to bed," said Isabel with persistentfrivolity.

"Do you know where you're drifting?" Henrietta pursued,holding out her bonnet delicately.

"No, I haven't the least idea, and I find it very pleasant not toknow. A swift carriage, of a dark night, rattling with fourhorses over roads that one can't see—that's my idea ofhappiness."

"Mr. Goodwood certainly didn't teach you to say such thingsas that—like the heroine of an immoral novel," said Miss Stack-pole. "You're drifting to some great mistake."

Isabel was irritated by her friend's interference, yet she stilltried to think what truth this declaration could represent. Shecould think of nothing that diverted her from saying: "You mustbe very fond of me, Henrietta, to be willing to be soaggressive."

"I love you intensely, Isabel," said Miss Stackpole withfeeling,

"Well, if you love me intensely let me as intensely alone. Iasked that of Mr. Goodwood, and I must also ask it of you."

"Take care you're not let alone too much.""That's what Mr. Goodwood said to me. I told him I must take

the risks.""You're a creature of risks—you make me shudder!" cried

Henrietta. "When does Mr. Goodwood return to America?""I don't know—he didn't tell me.""Perhaps you didn't enquire," said Henrietta with the note of

righteous irony."I gave him too little satisfaction to have the right to ask

questions of him."

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This assertion seemed to Miss Stackpole for a moment to biddefiance to comment; but at last she exclaimed: "Well, Isabel, ifI didn't know you I might think you were heartless!"

"Take care," said Isabel; "you're spoiling me.""I'm afraid I've done that already. I hope, at least," Miss

Stackpole added, "that he may cross with Annie Climber!"Isabel learned from her the next morning that she had de-

termined not to return to Gardencourt (where old Mr. Touchetthad promised her a renewed welcome), but to await in Londonthe arrival of the invitation that Mr. Bantling had promised herfrom his sister Lady Pensil. Miss Stackpole related very freelyher conversation with Ralph Touchett's sociable friend and de-clared to Isabel that she really believed she had now got holdof something that would lead to something. On the receipt ofLady Pensil's letter—Mr. Bantling had virtually guaranteed thearrival of this document—she would immediately depart forBedfordshire, and if Isabel cared to look out for her impres-sions in the Interviewer she would certainly find them. Henri-etta was evidently going to see something of the inner life thistime.

"Do you know where you're drifting, Henrietta Stackpole?"Isabel asked, imitating the tone in which her friend had spokenthe night before.

"I'm drifting to a big position—that of the Queen of AmericanJournalism. If my next letter isn't copied all over the West I'llswallow my penwiper!"

She had arranged with her friend Miss Annie Climber, theyoung lady of the continental offers, that they should go to-gether to make those purchases which were to constitute MissClimber's farewell to a hemisphere in which she at least hadbeen appreciated; and she presently repaired to Jermyn Streetto pick up her companion. Shortly after her departure RalphTouchett was announced, and as soon as he came in Isabel sawhe had something on his mind. He very soon took his cousin in-to his confidence. He had received from his mother a telegramto the effect that his father had had a sharp attack of his oldmalady, that she was much alarmed and that she begged hewould instantly return to Gardencourt. On this occasion atleast Mrs. Touchett's devotion to the electric wire was notopen to criticism.

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"I've judged it best to see the great doctor, Sir MatthewHope, first," Ralph said; "by great good luck he's in town. He'sto see me at half-past twelve, and I shall make sure of his com-ing down to Gardencourt—which he will do the more readily ashe has already seen my father several times, both there and inLondon. There's an express at two-forty-five, which I shall take;and you'll come back with me or remain here a few dayslonger, exactly as you prefer."

"I shall certainly go with you," Isabel returned. "I don't sup-pose I can be of any use to my uncle, but if he's ill I shall like tobe near him."

"I think you're fond of him," said Ralph with a certain shypleasure in his face. "You appreciate him, which all the worldhasn't done. The quality's too fine."

"I quite adore him," Isabel after a moment said."That's very well. After his son he's your greatest admirer."

She welcomed this assurance, but she gave secretly a smallsigh of relief at the thought that Mr. Touchett was one of thoseadmirers who couldn't propose to marry her. This, however,was not what she spoke; she went on to inform Ralph thatthere were other reasons for her not remaining in London. Shewas tired of it and wished to leave it; and then Henrietta wasgoing away— going to stay in Bedfordshire.

"In Bedfordshire?""With Lady Pensil, the sister of Mr. Bantling, who has

answered for an invitation."Ralph was feeling anxious, but at this he broke into a laugh.

Suddenly, none the less, his gravity returned. "Bantling's aman of courage. But if the invitation should get lost on theway?"

"I thought the British post-office was impeccable.""The good Homer sometimes nods," said Ralph. "However,"

he went on more brightly, "the good Bantling never does, and,whatever happens, he'll take care of Henrietta."

Ralph went to keep his appointment with Sir Matthew Hope,and Isabel made her arrangements for quitting Pratt's Hotel.Her uncle's danger touched her nearly, and while she stood be-fore her open trunk, looking about her vaguely for what sheshould put into it, the tears suddenly rose to her eyes. It wasperhaps for this reason that when Ralph came back at two

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o'clock to take her to the station she was not yet ready. Hefound Miss Stackpole, however, in the sitting-room, where shehad just risen from her luncheon, and this lady immediately ex-pressed her regret at his father's illness.

"He's a grand old man," she said; "he's faithful to the last. Ifit's really to be the last—pardon my alluding to it, but you mustoften have thought of the possibility—I'm sorry that I shall notbe at Gardencourt."

"You'll amuse yourself much more in Bedfordshire.""I shall be sorry to amuse myself at such a time," said Henri-

etta with much propriety. But she immediately added: "I shouldlike so to commemorate the closing scene."

"My father may live a long time," said Ralph simply. Then,adverting to topics more cheerful, he interrogated Miss Stack-pole as to her own future.

Now that Ralph was in trouble she addressed him in a tone oflarger allowance and told him that she was much indebted tohim for having made her acquainted with Mr. Bantling. "Hehas told me just the things I want to know," she said; "all thesociety items and all about the royal family. I can't make outthat what he tells me about the royal family is much to theircredit; but he says that's only my peculiar way of looking at it.Well, all I want is that he should give me the facts; I can putthem together quick enough, once I've got them." And she ad-ded that Mr. Bantling had been so good as to promise to comeand take her out that afternoon.

"To take you where?" Ralph ventured to enquire."To Buckingham Palace. He's going to show me over it, so

that I may get some idea how they live.""Ah," said Ralph, "we leave you in good hands. The first thing

we shall hear is that you're invited to Windsor Castle.""If they ask me, I shall certainly go. Once I get started I'm

not afraid. But for all that," Henrietta added in a moment, "I'mnot satisfied; I'm not at peace about Isabel."

"What is her last misdemeanour?""Well, I've told you before, and I suppose there's no harm in

my going on. I always finish a subject that I take up. Mr. Good-wood was here last night."

Ralph opened his eyes; he even blushed a little—his blush be-ing the sign of an emotion somewhat acute. He remembered

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that Isabel, in separating from him in Winchester Square, hadrepudiated his suggestion that her motive in doing so was theexpectation of a visitor at Pratt's Hotel, and it was a new pangto him to have to suspect her of duplicity. On the other hand,he quickly said to himself, what concern was it of his that sheshould have made an appointment with a lover? Had it notbeen thought graceful in every age that young ladies shouldmake a mystery of such appointments? Ralph gave Miss Stack-pole a diplomatic answer. "I should have thought that, with theviews you expressed to me the other day, this would satisfy youperfectly."

"That he should come to see her? That was very well, as faras it went. It was a little plot of mine; I let him know that wewere in London, and when it had been arranged that I shouldspend the evening out I sent him a word—the word we just ut-ter to the 'wise.' I hoped he would find her alone; I won't pre-tend I didn't hope that you'd be out of the way. He came to seeher, but he might as well have stayed away."

"Isabel was cruel?"—and Ralph's face lighted with the reliefof his cousin's not having shown duplicity.

"I don't exactly know what passed between them. But shegave him no satisfaction—she sent him back to America."

"Poor Mr. Goodwood!" Ralph sighed."Her only idea seems to be to get rid of him," Henrietta went

on."Poor Mr. Goodwood!" Ralph repeated. The exclamation, it

must be confessed, was automatic; it failed exactly to expresshis thoughts, which were taking another line.

"You don't say that as if you felt it. I don't believe you care.""Ah," said Ralph, "you must remember that I don't know this

interesting young man—that I've never seen him.""Well, I shall see him, and I shall tell him not to give up. If I

didn't believe Isabel would come round," Miss Stackpole ad-ded— "well, I'd give up myself. I mean I'd give HER up!"

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Chapter 18It had occurred to Ralph that, in the conditions, Isabel's part-ing with her friend might be of a slightly embarrassed nature,and he went down to the door of the hotel in advance of hiscousin, who, after a slight delay, followed with the traces of anunaccepted remonstrance, as he thought, in her eyes. The twomade the journey to Gardencourt in almost unbroken silence,and the servant who met them at the station had no betternews to give them of Mr. Touchett—a fact which caused Ralphto congratulate himself afresh on Sir Matthew Hope's havingpromised to come down in the five o'clock train and spend thenight. Mrs. Touchett, he learned, on reaching home, had beenconstantly with the old man and was with him at that moment;and this fact made Ralph say to himself that, after all, what hismother wanted was just easy occasion. The finer natures werethose that shone at the larger times. Isabel went to her ownroom, noting throughout the house that perceptible hush whichprecedes a crisis. At the end of an hour, however, she camedownstairs in search of her aunt, whom she wished to askabout Mr. Touchett. She went into the library, but Mrs.Touchett was not there, and as the weather, which had beendamp and chill, was now altogether spoiled, it was not prob-able she had gone for her usual walk in the grounds. Isabelwas on the point of ringing to send a question to her room,when this purpose quickly yielded to an unexpected sound—the sound of low music proceeding apparently from the saloon.She knew her aunt never touched the piano, and the musicianwas therefore probably Ralph, who played for his own amuse-ment. That he should have resorted to this recreation at thepresent time indicated apparently that his anxiety about hisfather had been relieved; so that the girl took her way, almostwith restored cheer, toward the source of the harmony. Thedrawing-room at Gardencourt was an apartment of great

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distances, and, as the piano was placed at the end of it furthestremoved from the door at which she entered, her arrival wasnot noticed by the person seated before the instrument. Thisperson was neither Ralph nor his mother; it was a lady whomIsabel immediately saw to be a stranger to herself, though herback was presented to the door. This back—an ample and well-dressed one—Isabel viewed for some moments with surprise.The lady was of course a visitor who had arrived during her ab-sence and who had not been mentioned by either of the ser-vants—one of them her aunt's maid—of whom she had hadspeech since her return. Isabel had already learned, however,with what treasures of reserve the function of receiving ordersmay be accompanied, and she was particularly conscious ofhaving been treated with dryness by her aunt's maid, throughwhose hands she had slipped perhaps a little too mistrustfullyand with an effect of plumage but the more lustrous. The ad-vent of a guest was in itself far from disconcerting; she had notyet divested herself of a young faith that each new acquaint-ance would exert some momentous influence on her life. By thetime she had made these reflexions she became aware that thelady at the piano played remarkably well. She was playingsomething of Schubert's—Isabel knew not what, but recog-nised Schubert—and she touched the piano with a discretion ofher own. It showed skill, it showed feeling; Isabel sat downnoiselessly on the nearest chair and waited till the end of thepiece. When it was finished she felt a strong desire to thankthe player, and rose from her seat to do so, while at the sametime the stranger turned quickly round, as if but just aware ofher presence.

"That's very beautiful, and your playing makes it more beau-tiful still," said Isabel with all the young radiance with whichshe usually uttered a truthful rapture.

"You don't think I disturbed Mr. Touchett then?" the musi-cian answered as sweetly as this compliment deserved. "Thehouse is so large and his room so far away that I thought Imight venture, especially as I played just—just du bout desdoigts."

"She's a Frenchwoman," Isabel said to herself; "she says thatas if she were French." And this supposition made the visitormore interesting to our speculative heroine. "I hope my uncle's

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doing well," Isabel added. "I should think that to hear suchlovely music as that would really make him feel better."

The lady smiled and discriminated. "I'm afraid there are mo-ments in life when even Schubert has nothing to say to us. Wemust admit, however, that they are our worst."

"I'm not in that state now then," said Isabel. "On the contraryI should be so glad if you would play something more."

"If it will give you pleasure—delighted." And this obligingperson took her place again and struck a few chords, while Isa-bel sat down nearer the instrument. Suddenly the new-comerstopped with her hands on the keys, half-turning and lookingover her shoulder. She was forty years old and not pretty,though her expression charmed. "Pardon me," she said; "butare you the niece —the young American?"

"I'm my aunt's niece," Isabel replied with simplicity.The lady at the piano sat still a moment longer, casting her

air of interest over her shoulder. "That's very well; we're com-patriots." And then she began to play.

"Ah then she's not French," Isabel murmured; and as the op-posite supposition had made her romantic it might haveseemed that this revelation would have marked a drop. Butsuch was not the fact; rarer even than to be French seemed itto be American on such interesting terms.

The lady played in the same manner as before, softly and sol-emnly, and while she played the shadows deepened in theroom. The autumn twilight gathered in, and from her place Isa-bel could see the rain, which had now begun in earnest, wash-ing the cold-looking lawn and the wind shaking the great trees.At last, when the music had ceased, her companion got up and,coming nearer with a smile, before Isabel had time to thankher again, said: "I'm very glad you've come back; I've heard agreat deal about you."

Isabel thought her a very attractive person, but neverthelessspoke with a certain abruptness in reply to this speech. "Fromwhom have you heard about me?"

The stranger hesitated a single moment and then, "Fromyour uncle," she answered. "I've been here three days, and thefirst day he let me come and pay him a visit in his room. Thenhe talked constantly of you."

"As you didn't know me that must rather have bored you."

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"It made me want to know you. All the more that sincethen—your aunt being so much with Mr. Touchett—I've beenquite alone and have got rather tired of my own society. I'venot chosen a good moment for my visit."

A servant had come in with lamps and was presently followedby another bearing the tea-tray. On the appearance of this re-past Mrs. Touchett had apparently been notified, for she nowarrived and addressed herself to the tea-pot. Her greeting toher niece did not differ materially from her manner of raisingthe lid of this receptacle in order to glance at the contents: inneither act was it becoming to make a show of avidity. Ques-tioned about her husband she was unable to say he was better;but the local doctor was with him, and much light was expec-ted from this gentleman's consultation with Sir Matthew Hope.

"I suppose you two ladies have made acquaintance," she pur-sued. "If you haven't I recommend you to do so; for so long aswe continue—Ralph and I—to cluster about Mr. Touchett's bedyou're not likely to have much society but each other."

"I know nothing about you but that you're a great musician,"Isabel said to the visitor.

"There's a good deal more than that to know," Mrs. Touchettaffirmed in her little dry tone.

"A very little of it, I am sure, will content Miss Archer!" thelady exclaimed with a light laugh. "I'm an old friend of youraunt's. I've lived much in Florence. I'm Madame Merle." Shemade this last announcement as if she were referring to a per-son of tolerably distinct identity. For Isabel, however, it repres-ented little; she could only continue to feel that Madame Merlehad as charming a manner as any she had ever encountered.

"She's not a foreigner in spite of her name," said Mrs.Touchett.

"She was born—I always forget where you were born.""It's hardly worth while then I should tell you.""On the contrary," said Mrs. Touchett, who rarely missed a

logical point; "if I remembered your telling me would be quitesuperfluous."

Madame Merle glanced at Isabel with a sort of world-widesmile, a thing that over-reached frontiers. "I was born underthe shadow of the national banner."

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"She's too fond of mystery," said Mrs. Touchett; "that's hergreat fault."

"Ah," exclaimed Madame Merle, "I've great faults, but I don'tthink that's one of then; it certainly isn't the greatest. I cameinto the world in the Brooklyn navy-yard. My father was a highofficer in the United States Navy, and had a post—a post of re-sponsibility—in that establishment at the time. I suppose Iought to love the sea, but I hate it. That's why I don't return toAmerica. I love the land; the great thing is to love something."

Isabel, as a dispassionate witness, had not been struck withthe force of Mrs. Touchett's characterisation of her visitor, whohad an expressive, communicative, responsive face, by nomeans of the sort which, to Isabel's mind, suggested a secret-ive disposition. It was a face that told of an amplitude of natureand of quick and free motions and, though it had no regularbeauty, was in the highest degree engaging and attaching. Ma-dame Merle was a tall, fair, smooth woman; everything in herperson was round and replete, though without those accumula-tions which suggest heaviness. Her features were thick but inperfect proportion and harmony, and her complexion had ahealthy clearness. Her grey eyes were small but full of lightand incapable of stupidity— incapable, according to somepeople, even of tears; she had a liberal, full-rimmed mouthwhich when she smiled drew itself upward to the left side in amanner that most people thought very odd, some very affectedand a few very graceful. Isabel inclined to range herself in thelast category. Madame Merle had thick, fair hair, arrangedsomehow "classically" and as if she were a Bust, Isabeljudged—a Juno or a Niobe; and large white hands, of a perfectshape, a shape so perfect that their possessor, preferring toleave them unadorned, wore no jewelled rings. Isabel hadtaken her at first, as we have seen, for a Frenchwoman; but ex-tended observation might have ranked her as a German—aGerman of high degree, perhaps an Austrian, a baroness, acountess, a princess. It would never have been supposed shehad come into the world in Brooklyn—though one could doubt-less not have carried through any argument that the air of dis-tinction marking her in so eminent a degree was inconsistentwith such a birth. It was true that the national banner hadfloated immediately over her cradle, and the breezy freedom of

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the stars and stripes might have shed an influence upon the at-titude she there took towards life. And yet she had evidentlynothing of the fluttered, flapping quality of a morsel of buntingin the wind; her manner expressed the repose and confidencewhich come from a large experience. Experience, however, hadnot quenched her youth; it had simply made her sympatheticand supple. She was in a word a woman of strong impulseskept in admirable order. This commended itself to Isabel as anideal combination.

The girl made these reflexions while the three ladies sat attheir tea, but that ceremony was interrupted before long by thearrival of the great doctor from London, who had been immedi-ately ushered into the drawing-room. Mrs. Touchett took himoff to the library for a private talk; and then Madame Merleand Isabel parted, to meet again at dinner. The idea of seeingmore of this interesting woman did much to mitigate Isabel'ssense of the sadness now settling on Gardencourt.

When she came into the drawing-room before dinner shefound the place empty; but in the course of a moment Ralph ar-rived. His anxiety about his father had been lightened; Sir Mat-thew Hope's view of his condition was less depressed than hisown had been. The doctor recommended that the nurse aloneshould remain with the old man for the next three or fourhours; so that Ralph, his mother and the great physician him-self were free to dine at table. Mrs. Touchett and Sir Matthewappeared; Madame Merle was the last.

Before she came Isabel spoke of her to Ralph, who wasstanding before the fireplace. "Pray who is this MadameMerle?"

"The cleverest woman I know, not excepting yourself," saidRalph.

"I thought she seemed very pleasant.""I was sure you'd think her very pleasant.""Is that why you invited her?""I didn't invite her, and when we came back from London I

didn't know she was here. No one invited her. She's a friend ofmy mother's, and just after you and I went to town my mothergot a note from her. She had arrived in England (she usuallylives abroad, though she has first and last spent a good deal oftime here), and asked leave to come down for a few days. She's

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a woman who can make such proposals with perfect confid-ence; she's so welcome wherever she goes. And with my moth-er there could be no question of hesitating; she's the one per-son in the world whom my mother very much admires. If shewere not herself (which she after all much prefers), she wouldlike to be Madame Merle. It would indeed be a great change."

"Well, she's very charming," said Isabel. "And she playsbeautifully."

"She does everything beautifully. She's complete."Isabel looked at her cousin a moment. "You don't like her.""On the contrary, I was once in love with her.""And she didn't care for you, and that's why you don't like

her.""How can we have discussed such things? Monsieur Merle

was then living.""Is he dead now?""So she says.""Don't you believe her?""Yes, because the statement agrees with the probabilities.

The husband of Madame Merle would be likely to pass away."Isabel gazed at her cousin again. "I don't know what you

mean. You mean something—that you don't mean. What wasMonsieur Merle?"

"The husband of Madame.""You're very odious. Has she any children?""Not the least little child—fortunately.""Fortunately?""I mean fortunately for the child. She'd be sure to spoil it."Isabel was apparently on the point of assuring her cousin for

the third time that he was odious; but the discussion was inter-rupted by the arrival of the lady who was the topic of it. Shecame rustling in quickly, apologising for being late, fastening abracelet, dressed in dark blue satin, which exposed a whitebosom that was ineffectually covered by a curious silver neck-lace. Ralph offered her his arm with the exaggerated alertnessof a man who was no longer a lover.

Even if this had still been his condition, however, Ralph hadother things to think about. The great doctor spent the night atGardencourt and, returning to London on the morrow, after an-other consultation with Mr. Touchett's own medical adviser,

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concurred in Ralph's desire that he should see the patientagain on the day following. On the day following Sir MatthewHope reappeared at Gardencourt, and now took a less encour-aging view of the old man, who had grown worse in the twenty-four hours. His feebleness was extreme, and to his son, whoconstantly sat by his bedside, it often seemed that his end mustbe at hand. The local doctor, a very sagacious man, in whomRalph had secretly more confidence than in his distinguishedcolleague, was constantly in attendance, and Sir MatthewHope came back several times. Mr. Touchett was much of thetime unconscious; he slept a great deal; he rarely spoke. Isabelhad a great desire to be useful to him and was allowed towatch with him at hours when his other attendants (of whomMrs. Touchett was not the least regular) went to take rest. Henever seemed to know her, and she always said to herself"Suppose he should die while I'm sitting here;" an idea whichexcited her and kept her awake. Once he opened his eyes for awhile and fixed them upon her intelligently, but when she wentto him, hoping he would recognise her, he closed them and re-lapsed into stupor. The day after this, however, he revived for alonger time; but on this occasion Ralph only was with him. Theold man began to talk, much to his son's satisfaction, who as-sured him that they should presently have him sitting up.

"No, my boy," said Mr. Touchett, "not unless you bury me ina sitting posture, as some of the ancients—was it the an-cients?— used to do."

"Ah, daddy, don't talk about that," Ralph murmured. "Youmustn't deny that you're getting better."

"There will be no need of my denying it if you don't say it,"the old man answered. "Why should we prevaricate just at thelast? We never prevaricated before. I've got to die some time,and it's better to die when one's sick than when one's well. I'mvery sick —as sick as I shall ever be. I hope you don't want toprove that I shall ever be worse than this? That would be toobad. You don't? Well then."

Having made this excellent point he became quiet; but thenext time that Ralph was with him he again addressed himselfto conversation. The nurse had gone to her supper and Ralphwas alone in charge, having just relieved Mrs. Touchett, whohad been on guard since dinner. The room was lighted only by

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the flickering fire, which of late had become necessary, andRalph's tall shadow was projected over wall and ceiling with anoutline constantly varying but always grotesque.

"Who's that with me—is it my son?" the old man asked."Yes, it's your son, daddy.""And is there no one else?""No one else."Mr. Touchett said nothing for a while; and then, "I want to

talk a little," he went on."Won't it tire you?" Ralph demurred."It won't matter if it does. I shall have a long rest. I want to

talk about YOU."Ralph had drawn nearer to the bed; he sat leaning forward

with his hand on his father's. "You had better select a brightertopic."

"You were always bright; I used to be proud of your bright-ness. I should like so much to think you'd do something."

"If you leave us," said Ralph, "I shall do nothing but missyou."

"That's just what I don't want; it's what I want to talk about.You must get a new interest."

"I don't want a new interest, daddy. I have more old onesthan I know what to do with."

The old man lay there looking at his son; his face was theface of the dying, but his eyes were the eyes of DanielTouchett. He seemed to be reckoning over Ralph's interests."Of course you have your mother," he said at last. "You'll takecare of her."

"My mother will always take care of herself," Ralph returned."Well," said his father, "perhaps as she grows older she'll

need a little help.""I shall not see that. She'll outlive me.""Very likely she will; but that's no reason—!" Mr. Touchett let

his phrase die away in a helpless but not quite querulous sighand remained silent again.

"Don't trouble yourself about us," said his son, "My motherand I get on very well together, you know."

"You get on by always being apart; that's not natural.""If you leave us we shall probably see more of each other."

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"Well," the old man observed with wandering irrelevance, "itcan't be said that my death will make much difference in yourmother's life."

"It will probably make more than you think.""Well, she'll have more money," said Mr. Touchett. "I've left

her a good wife's portion, just as if she had been a good wife.""She has been one, daddy, according to her own theory. She

has never troubled you.""Ah, some troubles are pleasant," Mr. Touchett murmured.

"Those you've given me for instance. But your mother has beenless— less—what shall I call it? less out of the way since I'vebeen ill. I presume she knows I've noticed it."

"I shall certainly tell her so; I'm so glad you mention it.""It won't make any difference to her; she doesn't do it to

please me. She does it to please—to please—" And he lay awhile trying to think why she did it. "She does it because itsuits her. But that's not what I want to talk about," he added."It's about you. You'll be very well off."

"Yes," said Ralph, "I know that. But I hope you've not forgot-ten the talk we had a year ago—when I told you exactly whatmoney I should need and begged you to make some good useof the rest."

"Yes, yes, I remember. I made a new will—in a few days. Isuppose it was the first time such a thing had happened—ayoung man trying to get a will made against him."

"It is not against me," said Ralph. "It would be against me tohave a large property to take care of. It's impossible for a manin my state of health to spend much money, and enough is asgood as a feast."

"Well, you'll have enough—and something over. There will bemore than enough for one—there will be enough for two."

"That's too much," said Ralph."Ah, don't say that. The best thing you can do; when I'm

gone, will be to marry."Ralph had foreseen what his father was coming to, and this

suggestion was by no means fresh. It had long been Mr.Touchett's most ingenious way of taking the cheerful view ofhis son's possible duration. Ralph had usually treated it fa-cetiously; but present circumstances proscribed the facetious.

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He simply fell back in his chair and returned his father's ap-pealing gaze.

"If I, with a wife who hasn't been very fond of me, have had avery happy life," said the old man, carrying his ingenuity fur-ther still, "what a life mightn't you have if you should marry aperson different from Mrs. Touchett. There are more differentfrom her than there are like her." Ralph still said nothing; andafter a pause his father resumed softly: "What do you think ofyour cousin?"

At this Ralph started, meeting the question with a strainedsmile. "Do I understand you to propose that I should marryIsabel?"

"Well, that's what it comes to in the end. Don't you likeIsabel?"

"Yes, very much." And Ralph got up from his chair andwandered over to the fire. He stood before it an instant andthen he stooped and stirred it mechanically. "I like Isabel verymuch," he repeated.

"Well," said his father, "I know she likes you. She has told mehow much she likes you."

"Did she remark that she would like to marry me?""No, but she can't have anything against you. And she's the

most charming young lady I've ever seen. And she would begood to you. I have thought a great deal about it."

"So have I," said Ralph, coming back to the bedside again. "Idon't mind telling you that."

"You ARE in love with her then? I should think you would be.It's as if she came over on purpose."

"No, I'm not in love with her; but I should be if—if certainthings were different."

"Ah, things are always different from what they might be,"said the old man. "If you wait for them to change you'll neverdo anything. I don't know whether you know," he went on; "butI suppose there's no harm in my alluding to it at such an houras this: there was some one wanted to marry Isabel the otherday, and she wouldn't have him."

"I know she refused Warburton: he told me himself.""Well, that proves there's a chance for somebody else.""Somebody else took his chance the other day in Lon-

don—and got nothing by it."

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"Was it you?" Mr. Touchett eagerly asked."No, it was an older friend; a poor gentleman who came over

from America to see about it.""Well, I'm sorry for him, whoever he was. But it only proves

what I say—that the way's open to you.""If it is, dear father, it's all the greater pity that I'm unable to

tread it. I haven't many convictions; but I have three or fourthat I hold strongly. One is that people, on the whole, had bet-ter not marry their cousins. Another is that people in an ad-vanced stage of pulmonary disorder had better not marry atall."

The old man raised his weak hand and moved it to and frobefore his face. "What do you mean by that? You look at thingsin a way that would make everything wrong. What sort of acousin is a cousin that you had never seen for more thantwenty years of her life? We're all each other's cousins, and ifwe stopped at that the human race would die out. It's just thesame with your bad lung. You're a great deal better than youused to be. All you want is to lead a natural life. It is a greatdeal more natural to marry a pretty young lady that you're inlove with than it is to remain single on false principles."

"I'm not in love with Isabel," said Ralph."You said just now that you would be if you didn't think it

wrong. I want to prove to you that it isn't wrong.""It will only tire you, dear daddy," said Ralph, who marvelled

at his father's tenacity and at his finding strength to insist."Then where shall we all be?"

"Where shall you be if I don't provide for you? You won'thave anything to do with the bank, and you won't have me totake care of. You say you've so many interests; but I can't makethem out."

Ralph leaned back in his chair with folded arms; his eyeswere fixed for some time in meditation. At last, with the air of aman fairly mustering courage, "I take a great interest in mycousin," he said, "but not the sort of interest you desire. I shallnot live many years; but I hope I shall live long enough to seewhat she does with herself. She's entirely independent of me; Ican exercise very little influence upon her life. But I should liketo do something for her."

"What should you like to do?"

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"I should like to put a little wind in her sails.""What do you mean by that?""I should like to put it into her power to do some of the

things she wants. She wants to see the world for instance. Ishould like to put money in her purse."

"Ah, I'm glad you've thought of that," said the old man. "ButI've thought of it too. I've left her a legacy—five thousandpounds."

"That's capital; it's very kind of you. But I should like to do alittle more."

Something of that veiled acuteness with which it had been onDaniel Touchett's part the habit of a lifetime to listen to a fin-ancial proposition still lingered in the face in which the invalidhad not obliterated the man of business. "I shall be happy toconsider it," he said softly.

"Isabel's poor then. My mother tells me that she has but afew hundred dollars a year. I should like to make her rich."

"What do you mean by rich?""I call people rich when they're able to meet the require-

ments of their imagination. Isabel has a great deal ofimagination."

"So have you, my son," said Mr. Touchett, listening very at-tentively but a little confusedly.

"You tell me I shall have money enough for two. What I wantis that you should kindly relieve me of my superfluity and makeit over to Isabel. Divide my inheritance into two equal halvesand give her the second."

"To do what she likes with?""Absolutely what she likes.""And without an equivalent?""What equivalent could there be?""The one I've already mentioned.""Her marrying—some one or other? It's just to do away with

anything of that sort that I make my suggestion. If she has aneasy income she'll never have to marry for a support. That'swhat I want cannily to prevent. She wishes to be free, and yourbequest will make her free."

"Well, you seem to have thought it out," said Mr. Touchett."But I don't see why you appeal to me. The money will beyours, and you can easily give it to her yourself."

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Ralph openly stared. "Ah, dear father, I can't offer Isabelmoney!"

The old man gave a groan. "Don't tell me you're not in lovewith her! Do you want me to have the credit of it?"

"Entirely. I should like it simply to be a clause in your will,without the slightest reference to me."

"Do you want me to make a new will then?""A few words will do it; you can attend to it the next time you

feel a little lively.""You must telegraph to Mr. Hilary then. I'll do nothing

without my solicitor.""You shall see Mr. Hilary to-morrow.""He'll think we've quarrelled, you and I," said the old man."Very probably; I shall like him to think it," said Ralph, smil-

ing; "and, to carry out the idea, I give you notice that I shall bevery sharp, quite horrid and strange, with you."

The humour of this appeared to touch his father, who lay alittle while taking it in. "I'll do anything you like," Mr. Touchettsaid at last; "but I'm not sure it's right. You say you want to putwind in her sails; but aren't you afraid of putting too much?"

"I should like to see her going before the breeze!" Ralphanswered.

"You speak as if it were for your mere amusement.""So it is, a good deal.""Well, I don't think I understand," said Mr. Touchett with a

sigh. "Young men are very different from what I was. When Icared for a girl—when I was young—I wanted to do more thanlook at her."

"You've scruples that I shouldn't have had, and you've ideasthat I shouldn't have had either. You say Isabel wants to befree, and that her being rich will keep her from marrying formoney. Do you think that she's a girl to do that?"

"By no means. But she has less money than she has ever hadbefore. Her father then gave her everything, because he usedto spend his capital. She has nothing but the crumbs of thatfeast to live on, and she doesn't really know how meagre theyare—she has yet to learn it. My mother has told me all about it.Isabel will learn it when she's really thrown upon the world,and it would be very painful to me to think of her coming to the

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consciousness of a lot of wants she should be unable tosatisfy."

"I've left her five thousand pounds. She can satisfy a goodmany wants with that."

"She can indeed. But she would probably spend it in two orthree years."

"You think she'd be extravagant then?""Most certainly," said Ralph, smiling serenely.Poor Mr. Touchett's acuteness was rapidly giving place to

pure confusion. "It would merely be a question of time then,her spending the larger sum?"

"No—though at first I think she'd plunge into that prettyfreely: she'd probably make over a part of it to each of her sis-ters. But after that she'd come to her senses, remember shehas still a lifetime before her, and live within her means."

"Well, you HAVE worked it out," said the old man helplessly."You do take an interest in her, certainly."

"You can't consistently say I go too far. You wished me to gofurther."

"Well, I don't know," Mr. Touchett answered. "I don't think Ienter into your spirit. It seems to me immoral."

"Immoral, dear daddy?""Well, I don't know that it's right to make everything so easy

for a person.""It surely depends upon the person. When the person's good,

your making things easy is all to the credit of virtue. To facilit-ate the execution of good impulses, what can be a nobler act?"

This was a little difficult to follow, and Mr. Touchett con-sidered it for a while. At last he said: "Isabel's a sweet youngthing; but do you think she's so good as that?"

"She's as good as her best opportunities," Ralph returned."Well," Mr. Touchett declared, "she ought to get a great

many opportunities for sixty thousand pounds.""I've no doubt she will.""Of course I'll do what you want," said the old man. "I only

want to understand it a little.""Well, dear daddy, don't you understand it now?" his son

caressingly asked. "If you don't we won't take any more troubleabout it. We'll leave it alone."

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Mr. Touchett lay a long time still. Ralph supposed he had giv-en up the attempt to follow. But at last, quite lucidly, he beganagain. "Tell me this first. Doesn't it occur to you that a younglady with sixty thousand pounds may fall a victim to thefortune-hunters?"

"She'll hardly fall a victim to more than one.""Well, one's too many.""Decidedly. That's a risk, and it has entered into my calcula-

tion. I think it's appreciable, but I think it's small, and I'm pre-pared to take it."

Poor Mr. Touchett's acuteness had passed into perplexity,and his perplexity now passed into admiration. "Well, you havegone into it!" he repeated. "But I don't see what good you're toget of it."

Ralph leaned over his father's pillows and gently smoothedthem; he was aware their talk had been unduly prolonged. "Ishall get just the good I said a few moments ago I wished toput into Isabel's reach—that of having met the requirements ofmy imagination. But it's scandalous, the way I've taken advant-age of you!"

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Chapter 19As Mrs. Touchett had foretold, Isabel and Madame Merle werethrown much together during the illness of their host, so that ifthey had not become intimate it would have been almost abreach of good manners. Their manners were of the best, butin addition to this they happened to please each other. It is per-haps too much to say that they swore an eternal friendship, buttacitly at least they called the future to witness. Isabel did sowith a perfectly good conscience, though she would have hesit-ated to admit she was intimate with her new friend in the highsense she privately attached to this term. She often wonderedindeed if she ever had been, or ever could be, intimate withany one. She had an ideal of friendship as well as of severalother sentiments, which it failed to seem to her in this case—ithad not seemed to her in other cases—that the actual com-pletely expressed. But she often reminded herself that therewere essential reasons why one's ideal could never becomeconcrete. It was a thing to believe in, not to see—a matter offaith, not of experience. Experience, however, might supply uswith very creditable imitations of it, and the part of wisdomwas to make the best of these. Certainly, on the whole, Isabelhad never encountered a more agreeable and interesting fig-ure than Madame Merle; she had never met a person havingless of that fault which is the principal obstacle to friend-ship—the air of reproducing the more tiresome, the stale, thetoo-familiar parts of one's own character. The gates of thegirl's confidence were opened wider than they had ever been;she said things to this amiable auditress that she had not yetsaid to any one. Sometimes she took alarm at her candour: itwas as if she had given to a comparative stranger the key toher cabinet of jewels. These spiritual gems were the only onesof any magnitude that Isabel possessed, but there was all thegreater reason for their being carefully guarded. Afterwards,

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however, she always remembered that one should never regreta generous error and that if Madame Merle had not the meritsshe attributed to her, so much the worse for Madame Merle.There was no doubt she had great merits—she was charming,sympathetic, intelligent, cultivated. More than this (for it hadnot been Isabel's ill-fortune to go through life without meetingin her own sex several persons of whom no less could fairly besaid), she was rare, superior and preeminent. There are manyamiable people in the world, and Madame Merle was far frombeing vulgarly good-natured and restlessly witty. She knewhow to think—an accomplishment rare in women; and she hadthought to very good purpose. Of course, too, she knew how tofeel; Isabel couldn't have spent a week with her without beingsure of that. This was indeed Madame Merle's great talent, hermost perfect gift. Life had told upon her; she had felt itstrongly, and it was part of the satisfaction to be taken in hersociety that when the girl talked of what she was pleased tocall serious matters this lady understood her so easily andquickly. Emotion, it is true, had become with her rather histor-ic; she made no secret of the fact that the fount of passion,thanks to having been rather violently tapped at one period,didn't flow quite so freely as of yore. She proposed moreover,as well as expected, to cease feeling; she freely admitted thatof old she had been a little mad, and now she pretended to beperfectly sane.

"I judge more than I used to," she said to Isabel, "but itseems to me one has earned the right. One can't judge tillone's forty; before that we're too eager, too hard, too cruel,and in addition much too ignorant. I'm sorry for you; it will bea long time before you're forty. But every gain's a loss of somekind; I often think that after forty one can't really feel. Thefreshness, the quickness have certainly gone. You'll keep themlonger than most people; it will be a great satisfaction to me tosee you some years hence. I want to see what life makes ofyou. One thing's certain—it can't spoil you. It may pull youabout horribly, but I defy it to break you up."

Isabel received this assurance as a young soldier, still pant-ing from a slight skirmish in which he has come off with hon-our, might receive a pat on the shoulder from his colonel. Likesuch a recognition of merit it seemed to come with authority.

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How could the lightest word do less on the part of a personwho was prepared to say, of almost everything Isabel told her,"Oh, I've been in that, my dear; it passes, like everything else."On many of her interlocutors Madame Merle might have pro-duced an irritating effect; it was disconcertingly difficult tosurprise her. But Isabel, though by no means incapable of de-siring to be effective, had not at present this impulse. She wastoo sincere, too interested in her judicious companion. Andthen moreover Madame Merle never said such things in thetone of triumph or of boastfulness; they dropped from her likecold confessions.

A period of bad weather had settled upon Gardencourt; thedays grew shorter and there was an end to the pretty tea-parties on the lawn. But our young woman had long indoorconversations with her fellow visitor, and in spite of the rainthe two ladies often sallied forth for a walk, equipped with thedefensive apparatus which the English climate and the Englishgenius have between them brought to such perfection. Ma-dame Merle liked almost everything, including the Englishrain. "There's always a little of it and never too much at once,"she said; "and it never wets you and it always smells good."She declared that in England the pleasures of smell weregreat—that in this inimitable island there was a certain mix-ture of fog and beer and soot which, however odd it mightsound, was the national aroma, and was most agreeable to thenostril; and she used to lift the sleeve of her British overcoatand bury her nose in it, inhaling the clear, fine scent of thewool. Poor Ralph Touchett, as soon as the autumn had begunto define itself, became almost a prisoner; in bad weather hewas unable to step out of the house, and he used sometimes tostand at one of the windows with his hands in his pockets and,from a countenance half-rueful, half-critical, watch Isabel andMadame Merle as they walked down the avenue under a pairof umbrellas. The roads about Gardencourt were so firm, evenin the worst weather, that the two ladies always came backwith a healthy glow in their cheeks, looking at the soles of theirneat, stout boots and declaring that their walk had done theminexpressible good. Before luncheon, always, Madame Merlewas engaged; Isabel admired and envied her rigid possessionof her morning. Our heroine had always passed for a person of

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resources and had taken a certain pride in being one; but shewandered, as by the wrong side of the wall of a private garden,round the enclosed talents, accomplishments, aptitudes of Ma-dame Merle. She found herself desiring to emulate them, andin twenty such ways this lady presented herself as a model. "Ishould like awfully to be so!" Isabel secretly exclaimed, morethan once, as one after another of her friend's fine aspectscaught the light, and before long she knew that she hadlearned a lesson from a high authority. It took no great time in-deed for her to feel herself, as the phrase is, under an influ-ence. "What's the harm," she wondered, "so long as it's a goodone? The more one's under a good influence the better. Theonly thing is to see our steps as we take them—to understandthem as we go. That, no doubt, I shall always do. I needn't beafraid of becoming too pliable; isn't it my fault that I'm not pli-able enough?" It is said that imitation is the sincerest flattery;and if Isabel was sometimes moved to gape at her friend aspir-ingly and despairingly it was not so much because she desiredherself to shine as because she wished to hold up the lamp forMadame Merle. She liked her extremely, but was even moredazzled than attracted. She sometimes asked herself whatHenrietta Stackpole would say to her thinking so much of thisperverted product of their common soil, and had a convictionthat it would be severely judged. Henrietta would not at allsubscribe to Madame Merle; for reasons she could not havedefined this truth came home to the girl. On the other hand shewas equally sure that, should the occasion offer, her new friendwould strike off some happy view of her old: Madame Merlewas too humorous, too observant, not to do justice to Henri-etta, and on becoming acquainted with her would probablygive the measure of a tact which Miss Stackpole couldn't hopeto emulate. She appeared to have in her experience a touch-stone for everything, and somewhere in the capacious pocketof her genial memory she would find the key to Henrietta'svalue. "That's the great thing," Isabel solemnly pondered;"that's the supreme good fortune: to be in a better position forappreciating people than they are for appreciating you." Andshe added that such, when one considered it, was simply theessence of the aristocratic situation. In this light, if in none oth-er, one should aim at the aristocratic situation.

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I may not count over all the links in the chain which led Isa-bel to think of Madame Merle's situation as aristocratic—aview of it never expressed in any reference made to it by thatlady herself. She had known great things and great people, butshe had never played a great part. She was one of the smallones of the earth; she had not been born to honours; she knewthe world too well to nourish fatuous illusions on the article ofher own place in it. She had encountered many of the fortunatefew and was perfectly aware of those points at which their for-tune differed from hers. But if by her informed measure shewas no figure for a high scene, she had yet to Isabel's imagina-tion a sort of greatness. To be so cultivated and civilised, sowise and so easy, and still make so light of it—that was reallyto be a great lady, especially when one so carried and presen-ted one's self. It was as if somehow she had all society undercontribution, and all the arts and graces it practised—or wasthe effect rather that of charming uses found for her, evenfrom a distance, subtle service rendered by her to a clamorousworld wherever she might be? After breakfast she wrote a suc-cession of letters, as those arriving for her appeared innumer-able: her correspondence was a source of surprise to Isabelwhen they sometimes walked together to the village post-officeto deposit Madame Merle's offering to the mail. She knewmore people, as she told Isabel, than she knew what to do with,and something was always turning up to be written about. Ofpainting she was devotedly fond, and made no more of brush-ing in a sketch than of pulling off her gloves. At Gardencourtshe was perpetually taking advantage of an hour's sunshine togo out with a camp-stool and a box of water-colours. That shewas a brave musician we have already perceived, and it wasevidence of the fact that when she seated herself at the piano,as she always did in the evening, her listeners resigned them-selves without a murmur to losing the grace of her talk. Isabel,since she had known her, felt ashamed of her own facility,which she now looked upon as basely inferior; and indeed,though she had been thought rather a prodigy at home, theloss to society when, in taking her place upon the music-stool,she turned her back to the room, was usually deemed greaterthan the gain. When Madame Merle was neither writing, norpainting, nor touching the piano, she was usually employed

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upon wonderful tasks of rich embroidery, cushions, curtains,decorations for the chimneypiece; an art in which her bold,free invention was as noted as the agility of her needle. Shewas never idle, for when engaged in none of the ways I havementioned she was either reading (she appeared to Isabel toread "everything important"), or walking out, or playing pa-tience with the cards, or talking with her fellow inmates. Andwith all this she had always the social quality, was never rudelyabsent and yet never too seated. She laid down her pastimes aseasily as she took them up; she worked and talked at the sametime, and appeared to impute scant worth to anything she did.She gave away her sketches and tapestries; she rose from thepiano or remained there, according to the convenience of herauditors, which she always unerringly divined. She was inshort the most comfortable, profitable, amenable person to livewith. If for Isabel she had a fault it was that she was not natur-al; by which the girl meant, not that she was either affected orpretentious, since from these vulgar vices no woman couldhave been more exempt, but that her nature had been toomuch overlaid by custom and her angles too much rubbedaway. She had become too flexible, too useful, was too ripe andtoo final. She was in a word too perfectly the social animal thatman and woman are supposed to have been intended to be;and she had rid herself of every remnant of that tonic wildnesswhich we may assume to have belonged even to the most ami-able persons in the ages before country-house life was thefashion. Isabel found it difficult to think of her in any detach-ment or privacy, she existed only in her relations, direct or in-direct, with her fellow mortals. One might wonder what com-merce she could possibly hold with her own spirit. One alwaysended, however, by feeling that a charming surface doesn't ne-cessarily prove one superficial; this was an illusion in which, inone's youth, one had but just escaped being nourished. Ma-dame Merle was not superficial—not she. She was deep, andher nature spoke none the less in her behaviour because itspoke a conventional tongue. "What's language at all but a con-vention?" said Isabel. "She has the good taste not to pretend,like some people I've met, to express herself by original signs."

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"I'm afraid you've suffered much," she once found occasionto say to her friend in response to some allusion that had ap-peared to reach far.

"What makes you think that?" Madame Merle asked with theamused smile of a person seated at a game of guesses. "I hopeI haven't too much the droop of the misunderstood."

"No; but you sometimes say things that I think people whohave always been happy wouldn't have found out."

"I haven't always been happy," said Madame Merle, smilingstill, but with a mock gravity, as if she were telling a child asecret. "Such a wonderful thing!"

But Isabel rose to the irony. "A great many people give methe impression of never having for a moment felt anything."

"It's very true; there are many more iron pots certainly thanporcelain. But you may depend on it that every one bears somemark; even the hardest iron pots have a little bruise, a littlehole somewhere. I flatter myself that I'm rather stout, but if Imust tell you the truth I've been shockingly chipped andcracked. I do very well for service yet, because I've been clev-erly mended; and I try to remain in the cupboard—the quiet,dusky cupboard where there's an odour of stale spices—asmuch as I can. But when I've to come out and into a stronglight—then, my dear, I'm a horror!"

I know not whether it was on this occasion or on some otherthat the conversation had taken the turn I have just indicatedshe said to Isabel that she would some day a tale unfold. Isabelassured her she should delight to listen to one, and remindedher more than once of this engagement. Madame Merle,however, begged repeatedly for a respite, and at last franklytold her young companion that they must wait till they kneweach other better. This would be sure to happen, a long friend-ship so visibly lay before them. Isabel assented, but at thesame time enquired if she mightn't be trusted—if she appearedcapable of a betrayal of confidence.

"It's not that I'm afraid of your repeating what I say," her fel-low visitor answered; "I'm afraid, on the contrary, of your tak-ing it too much to yourself. You'd judge me too harshly; you'reof the cruel age." She preferred for the present to talk to Isabelof Isabel, and exhibited the greatest interest in our heroine'shistory, sentiments, opinions, prospects. She made her chatter

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and listened to her chatter with infinite good nature. Thisflattered and quickened the girl, who was struck with all thedistinguished people her friend had known and with her havinglived, as Mrs. Touchett said, in the best company in Europe.Isabel thought the better of herself for enjoying the favour of aperson who had so large a field of comparison; and it was per-haps partly to gratify the sense of profiting by comparison thatshe often appealed to these stores of reminiscence. MadameMerle had been a dweller in many lands and had social ties in adozen different countries. "I don't pretend to be educated," shewould say, "but I think I know my Europe;" and she spoke oneday of going to Sweden to stay with an old friend, and anotherof proceeding to Malta to follow up a new acquaintance. WithEngland, where she had often dwelt, she was thoroughly famili-ar, and for Isabel's benefit threw a great deal of light upon thecustoms of the country and the character of the people, who"after all," as she was fond of saying, were the most convenientin the world to live with.

"You mustn't think it strange her remaining here at such atime as this, when Mr. Touchett's passing away," thatgentleman's wife remarked to her niece. "She is incapable of amistake; she's the most tactful woman I know. It's a favour tome that she stays; she's putting off a lot of visits at greathouses," said Mrs. Touchett, who never forgot that when sheherself was in England her social value sank two or three de-grees in the scale. "She has her pick of places; she's not inwant of a shelter. But I've asked her to put in this time becauseI wish you to know her. I think it will be a good thing for you.Serena Merle hasn't a fault."

"If I didn't already like her very much that description mightalarm me," Isabel returned.

"She's never the least little bit 'off.' I've brought you out hereand I wish to do the best for you. Your sister Lily told me shehoped I would give you plenty of opportunities. I give you onein putting you in relation with Madame Merle. She's one of themost brilliant women in Europe."

"I like her better than I like your description of her," Isabelpersisted in saying.

"Do you flatter yourself that you'll ever feel her open to criti-cism? I hope you'll let me know when you do."

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"That will be cruel—to you," said Isabel."You needn't mind me. You won't discover a fault in her.""Perhaps not. But I dare say I shan't miss it.""She knows absolutely everything on earth there is to know,"

said Mrs. Touchett.Isabel after this observed to their companion that she hoped

she knew Mrs. Touchett considered she hadn't a speck on herperfection. On which "I'm obliged to you," Madame Merlereplied, "but I'm afraid your aunt imagines, or at least alludesto, no aberrations that the clock-face doesn't register."

"So that you mean you've a wild side that's unknown to her?""Ah no, I fear my darkest sides are my tamest. I mean that

having no faults, for your aunt, means that one's never late fordinner —that is for her dinner. I was not late, by the way, theother day, when you came back from London; the clock wasjust at eight when I came into the drawing-room: it was therest of you that were before the time. It means that one an-swers a letter the day one gets it and that when one comes tostay with her one doesn't bring too much luggage and is care-ful not to be taken ill. For Mrs. Touchett those things consti-tute virtue; it's a blessing to be able to reduce it to itselements."

Madame Merle's own conversation, it will be perceived, wasenriched with bold, free touches of criticism, which, even whenthey had a restrictive effect, never struck Isabel as ill-natured.It couldn't occur to the girl for instance that Mrs. Touchett'saccomplished guest was abusing her; and this for very goodreasons. In the first place Isabel rose eagerly to the sense ofher shades; in the second Madame Merle implied that therewas a great deal more to say; and it was clear in the third thatfor a person to speak to one without ceremony of one's near re-lations was an agreeable sign of that person's intimacy withone's self. These signs of deep communion multiplied as thedays elapsed, and there was none of which Isabel was moresensible than of her companion's preference for making MissArcher herself a topic. Though she referred frequently to theincidents of her own career she never lingered upon them; shewas as little of a gross egotist as she was of a flat gossip.

"I'm old and stale and faded," she said more than once; "I'mof no more interest than last week's newspaper. You're young

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and fresh and of to-day; you've the great thing—you've actual-ity. I once had it—we all have it for an hour. You, however, willhave it for longer. Let us talk about you then; you can say noth-ing I shall not care to hear. It's a sign that I'm growingold—that I like to talk with younger people. I think it's a verypretty compensation. If we can't have youth within us we canhave it outside, and I really think we see it and feel it betterthat way. Of course we must be in sympathy with it—that Ishall always be. I don't know that I shall ever be ill-naturedwith old people—I hope not; there are certainly some oldpeople I adore. But I shall never be anything but abject withthe young; they touch me and appeal to me too much. I giveyou carte blanche then; you can even be impertinent if youlike; I shall let it pass and horribly spoil you. I speak as if Iwere a hundred years old, you say? Well, I am, if you please; Iwas born before the French Revolution. Ah, my dear, je viensde loin; I belong to the old, old world. But it's not of that I wantto talk; I want to talk about the new. You must tell me moreabout America; you never tell me enough. Here I've been sinceI was brought here as a helpless child, and it's ridiculous, orrather it's scandalous, how little I know about that splendid,dreadful, funny country— surely the greatest and drollest ofthem all. There are a great many of us like that in these parts,and I must say I think we're a wretched set of people. Youshould live in your own land; whatever it may be you have yournatural place there. If we're not good Americans we're cer-tainly poor Europeans; we've no natural place here. We'remere parasites, crawling over the surface; we haven't our feetin the soil. At least one can know it and not have illusions. Awoman perhaps can get on; a woman, it seems to me, has nonatural place anywhere; wherever she finds herself she has toremain on the surface and, more or less, to crawl. You protest,my dear? you're horrified? you declare you'll never crawl? It'svery true that I don't see you crawling; you stand more uprightthan a good many poor creatures. Very good; on the whole, Idon't think you'll crawl. But the men, the Americans; je vousdemande un peu, what do they make of it over here? I don'tenvy them trying to arrange themselves. Look at poor RalphTouchett: what sort of a figure do you call that? Fortunately hehas a consumption; I say fortunately, because it gives him

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something to do. His consumption's his carriere it's a kind ofposition. You can say: 'Oh, Mr. Touchett, he takes care of hislungs, he knows a great deal about climates.' But without thatwho would he be, what would he represent? 'Mr. RalphTouchett: an American who lives in Europe.' That signifies ab-solutely nothing—it's impossible anything should signify less.'He's very cultivated,' they say: 'he has a very pretty collectionof old snuff-boxes.' The collection is all that's wanted to make itpitiful. I'm tired of the sound of the word; I think it's grotesque.With the poor old father it's different; he has his identity, andit's rather a massive one. He represents a great financialhouse, and that, in our day, is as good as anything else. For anAmerican, at any rate, that will do very well. But I persist inthinking your cousin very lucky to have a chronic malady solong as he doesn't die of it. It's much better than the snuff-boxes. If he weren't ill, you say, he'd do something?—he'd takehis father's place in the house. My poor child, I doubt it; I don'tthink he's at all fond of the house. However, you know him bet-ter than I, though I used to know him rather well, and he mayhave the benefit of the doubt. The worst case, I think, is afriend of mine, a countryman of ours, who lives in Italy (wherehe also was brought before he knew better), and who is one ofthe most delightful men I know. Some day you must know him.I'll bring you together and then you'll see what I mean. He'sGilbert Osmond—he lives in Italy; that's all one can say abouthim or make of him. He's exceedingly clever, a man made to bedistinguished; but, as I tell you, you exhaust the descriptionwhen you say he's Mr. Osmond who lives tout betement inItaly. No career, no name, no position, no fortune, no past, nofuture, no anything. Oh yes, he paints, if you please—paints inwater-colours; like me, only better than I. His painting's prettybad; on the whole I'm rather glad of that. Fortunately he's veryindolent, so indolent that it amounts to a sort of position. Hecan say, 'Oh, I do nothing; I'm too deadly lazy. You can donothing to-day unless you get up at five o'clock in the morning.'In that way he becomes a sort of exception; you feel he mightdo something if he'd only rise early. He never speaks of hispainting to people at large; he's too clever for that. But he hasa little girl—a dear little girl; he does speak of her. He's de-voted to her, and if it were a career to be an excellent father

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he'd be very distinguished. But I'm afraid that's no better thanthe snuff-boxes; perhaps not even so good. Tell me what theydo in America," pursued Madame Merle, who, it must be ob-served parenthetically, did not deliver herself all at once ofthese reflexions, which are presented in a cluster for the con-venience of the reader. She talked of Florence, where Mr. Os-mond lived and where Mrs. Touchett occupied a medievalpalace; she talked of Rome, where she herself had a little pied-a-terre with some rather good old damask. She talked ofplaces, of people and even, as the phrase is, of "subjects"; andfrom time to time she talked of their kind old host and of theprospect of his recovery. From the first she had thought thisprospect small, and Isabel had been struck with the positive,discriminating, competent way in which she took the measureof his remainder of life. One evening she announced definitelythat he wouldn't live.

"Sir Matthew Hope told me so as plainly as was proper," shesaid; "standing there, near the fire, before dinner. He makeshimself very agreeable, the great doctor. I don't mean his say-ing that has anything to do with it. But he says such thingswith great tact. I had told him I felt ill at my ease, staying hereat such a time; it seemed to me so indiscreet—it wasn't as if Icould nurse. 'You must remain, you must remain,' he answered;'your office will come later.' Wasn't that a very delicate way ofsaying both that poor Mr. Touchett would go and that I mightbe of some use as a consoler? In fact, however, I shall not be ofthe slightest use. Your aunt will console herself; she, and shealone, knows just how much consolation she'll require. It wouldbe a very delicate matter for another person to undertake toadminister the dose. With your cousin it will be different; he'llmiss his father immensely. But I should never presume to con-dole with Mr. Ralph; we're not on those terms." Madame Merlehad alluded more than once to some undefined incongruity inher relations with Ralph Touchett; so Isabel took this occasionof asking her if they were not good friends.

"Perfectly, but he doesn't like me.""What have you done to him?""Nothing whatever. But one has no need of a reason for

that."

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"For not liking you? I think one has need of a very goodreason."

"You're very kind. Be sure you have one ready for the dayyou begin."

"Begin to dislike you? I shall never begin.""I hope not; because if you do you'll never end. That's the

way with your cousin; he doesn't get over it. It's an antipathy ofnature—if I can call it that when it's all on his side. I've nothingwhatever against him and don't bear him the least little grudgefor not doing me justice. Justice is all I want. However, onefeels that he's a gentleman and would never say anything un-derhand about one. Cartes sur table," Madame Merle sub-joined in a moment, "I'm not afraid of him."

"I hope not indeed," said Isabel, who added something abouthis being the kindest creature living. She remembered,however, that on her first asking him about Madame Merle hehad answered her in a manner which this lady might havethought injurious without being explicit. There was somethingbetween them, Isabel said to herself, but she said nothing morethan this. If it were something of importance it should inspirerespect; if it were not it was not worth her curiosity. With allher love of knowledge she had a natural shrinking from raisingcurtains and looking into unlighted corners. The love of know-ledge coexisted in her mind with the finest capacity forignorance.

But Madame Merle sometimes said things that startled her,made her raise her clear eyebrows at the time and think of thewords afterwards. "I'd give a great deal to be your age again,"she broke out once with a bitterness which, though diluted inher customary amplitude of ease, was imperfectly disguised byit. "If I could only begin again—if I could have my life beforeme!"

"Your life's before you yet," Isabel answered gently, for shewas vaguely awe-struck.

"No; the best part's gone, and gone for nothing.""Surely not for nothing," said Isabel."Why not—what have I got? Neither husband, nor child, nor

fortune, nor position, nor the traces of a beauty that I neverhad."

"You have many friends, dear lady."

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"I'm not so sure!" cried Madame Merle."Ah, you're wrong. You have memories, graces, talents—"But Madame Merle interrupted her. "What have my talents

brought me? Nothing but the need of using them still, to getthrough the hours, the years, to cheat myself with some pre-tence of movement, of unconsciousness. As for my graces andmemories the less said about them the better. You'll be myfriend till you find a better use for your friendship."

"It will be for you to see that I don't then," said Isabel."Yes; I would make an effort to keep you." And her compan-

ion looked at her gravely. "When I say I should like to be yourage I mean with your qualities—frank, generous, sincere likeyou. In that case I should have made something better of mylife."

"What should you have liked to do that you've not done?"Madame Merle took a sheet of music—she was seated at the

piano and had abruptly wheeled about on the stool when shefirst spoke —and mechanically turned the leaves. "I'm very am-bitious!" she at last replied.

"And your ambitions have not been satisfied? They must havebeen great."

"They WERE great. I should make myself ridiculous by talk-ing of them."

Isabel wondered what they could have been—whether Ma-dame Merle had aspired to wear a crown. "I don't know whatyour idea of success may be, but you seem to me to have beensuccessful. To me indeed you're a vivid image of success."

Madame Merle tossed away the music with a smile. "What'sYOUR idea of success?"

"You evidently think it must be a very tame one. It's to seesome dream of one's youth come true."

"Ah," Madame Merle exclaimed, "that I've never seen! Butmy dreams were so great—so preposterous. Heaven forgiveme, I'm dreaming now!" And she turned back to the piano andbegan grandly to play. On the morrow she said to Isabel thather definition of success had been very pretty, yet frightfullysad. Measured in that way, who had ever succeeded? Thedreams of one's youth, why they were enchanting, they weredivine! Who had ever seen such things come to pass?

"I myself—a few of them," Isabel ventured to answer.

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"Already? They must have been dreams of yesterday.""I began to dream very young," Isabel smiled."Ah, if you mean the aspirations of your childhood—that of

having a pink sash and a doll that could close her eyes.""No, I don't mean that.""Or a young man with a fine moustache going down on his

knees to you.""No, nor that either," Isabel declared with still more

emphasis.Madame Merle appeared to note this eagerness. "I suspect

that's what you do mean. We've all had the young man with themoustache. He's the inevitable young man; he doesn't count."

Isabel was silent a little but then spoke with extreme andcharacteristic inconsequence. "Why shouldn't he count? Thereare young men and young men."

"And yours was a paragon—is that what you mean?" askedher friend with a laugh. "If you've had the identical young manyou dreamed of, then that was success, and I congratulate youwith all my heart. Only in that case why didn't you fly with himto his castle in the Apennines?"

"He has no castle in the Apennines.""What has he? An ugly brick house in Fortieth Street? Don't

tell me that; I refuse to recognise that as an ideal.""I don't care anything about his house," said Isabel."That's very crude of you. When you've lived as long as I

you'll see that every human being has his shell and that youmust take the shell into account. By the shell I mean the wholeenvelope of circumstances. There's no such thing as an isolatedman or woman; we're each of us made up of some cluster ofappurtenances. What shall we call our 'self'? Where does it be-gin? where does it end? It overflows into everything that be-longs to us—and then it flows back again. I know a large partof myself is in the clothes I choose to wear. I've a great respectfor THINGS! One's self— for other people—is one's expressionof one's self; and one's house, one's furniture, one's garments,the books one reads, the company one keeps—these things areall expressive."

This was very metaphysical; not more so, however, than sev-eral observations Madame Merle had already made. Isabel wasfond of metaphysics, but was unable to accompany her friend

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into this bold analysis of the human personality. "I don't agreewith you. I think just the other way. I don't know whether I suc-ceed in expressing myself, but I know that nothing else ex-presses me. Nothing that belongs to me is any measure of me;everything's on the contrary a limit, a barrier, and a perfectlyarbitrary one. Certainly the clothes which, as you say, I chooseto wear, don't express me; and heaven forbid they should!"

"You dress very well," Madame Merle lightly interposed."Possibly; but I don't care to be judged by that. My clothes

may express the dressmaker, but they don't express me. To be-gin with it's not my own choice that I wear them; they're im-posed upon me by society."

"Should you prefer to go without them?" Madame Merle en-quired in a tone which virtually terminated the discussion.

I am bound to confess, though it may cast some discredit onthe sketch I have given of the youthful loyalty practised by ourheroine toward this accomplished woman, that Isabel had saidnothing whatever to her about Lord Warburton and had beenequally reticent on the subject of Caspar Goodwood. She hadnot, however, concealed the fact that she had had opportunit-ies of marrying and had even let her friend know of how ad-vantageous a kind they had been. Lord Warburton had leftLockleigh and was gone to Scotland, taking his sisters withhim; and though he had written to Ralph more than once to askabout Mr. Touchett's health the girl was not liable to the em-barrassment of such enquiries as, had he still been in theneighbourhood, he would probably have felt bound to make inperson. He had excellent ways, but she felt sure that if he hadcome to Gardencourt he would have seen Madame Merle, andthat if he had seen her he would have liked her and betrayed toher that he was in love with her young friend. It so happenedthat during this lady's previous visits to Gardencourt— each ofthem much shorter than the present—he had either not been atLockleigh or had not called at Mr. Touchett's. Therefore,though she knew him by name as the great man of that county,she had no cause to suspect him as a suitor of Mrs. Touchett'sfreshly-imported niece.

"You've plenty of time," she had said to Isabel in return forthe mutilated confidences which our young woman made herand which didn't pretend to be perfect, though we have seen

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that at moments the girl had compunctions at having said somuch. "I'm glad you've done nothing yet—that you have it stillto do. It's a very good thing for a girl to have refused a fewgood offers—so long of course as they are not the best she'slikely to have. Pardon me if my tone seems horribly corrupt;one must take the worldly view sometimes. Only don't keep onrefusing for the sake of refusing. It's a pleasant exercise ofpower; but accepting's after all an exercise of power as well.There's always the danger of refusing once too often. It wasnot the one I fell into—I didn't refuse often enough. You're anexquisite creature, and I should like to see you married to aprime minister. But speaking strictly, you know, you're notwhat is technically called a parti. You're extremely good-look-ing and extremely clever; in yourself you're quite exceptional.You appear to have the vaguest ideas about your earthly pos-sessions; but from what I can make out you're not embarrassedwith an income. I wish you had a little money."

"I wish I had!" said Isabel, simply, apparently forgetting forthe moment that her poverty had been a venial fault for twogallant gentlemen.

In spite of Sir Matthew Hope's benevolent recommendationMadame Merle did not remain to the end, as the issue of poorMr. Touchett's malady had now come frankly to be designated.She was under pledges to other people which had at last to beredeemed, and she left Gardencourt with the understandingthat she should in any event see Mrs. Touchett there again, orelse in town, before quitting England. Her parting with Isabelwas even more like the beginning of a friendship than theirmeeting had been. "I'm going to six places in succession, but Ishall see no one I like so well as you. They'll all be old friends,however; one doesn't make new friends at my age. I've made agreat exception for you. You must remember that and mustthink as well of me as possible. You must reward me by believ-ing in me."

By way of answer Isabel kissed her, and, though some wo-men kiss with facility, there are kisses and kisses, and this em-brace was satisfactory to Madame Merle. Our young lady, afterthis, was much alone; she saw her aunt and cousin only atmeals, and discovered that of the hours during which Mrs.Touchett was invisible only a minor portion was now devoted

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to nursing her husband. She spent the rest in her own apart-ments, to which access was not allowed even to her niece, ap-parently occupied there with mysterious and inscrutable exer-cises. At table she was grave and silent; but her solemnity wasnot an attitude—Isabel could see it was a conviction. Shewondered if her aunt repented of having taken her own way somuch; but there was no visible evidence of this—no tears, nosighs, no exaggeration of a zeal always to its own sense ad-equate. Mrs. Touchett seemed simply to feel the need of think-ing things over and summing them up; she had a little moralaccount-book—with columns unerringly ruled and a sharp steelclasp—which she kept with exemplary neatness. Uttered reflec-tion had with her ever, at any rate, a practical ring. "If I hadforeseen this I'd not have proposed your coming abroad now,"she said to Isabel after Madame Merle had left the house. "I'dhave waited and sent for you next year."

"So that perhaps I should never have known my uncle? It's agreat happiness to me to have come now."

"That's very well. But it was not that you might know youruncle that I brought you to Europe." A perfectly veraciousspeech; but, as Isabel thought, not as perfectly timed. She hadleisure to think of this and other matters. She took a solitarywalk every day and spent vague hours in turning over books inthe library. Among the subjects that engaged her attentionwere the adventures of her friend Miss Stackpole, with whomshe was in regular correspondence. Isabel liked her friend'sprivate epistolary style better than her public; that is she felther public letters would have been excellent if they had notbeen printed. Henrietta's career, however, was not so success-ful as might have been wished even in the interest of herprivate felicity; that view of the inner life of Great Britainwhich she was so eager to take appeared to dance before herlike an ignis fatuus. The invitation from Lady Pensil, for mys-terious reasons, had never arrived; and poor Mr. Bantling him-self, with all his friendly ingenuity, had been unable to explainso grave a dereliction on the part of a missive that had obvi-ously been sent. He had evidently taken Henrietta's affairsmuch to heart, and believed that he owed her a set-off to thisillusory visit to Bedfordshire. "He says he should think I wouldgo to the Continent," Henrietta wrote; "and as he thinks of

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going there himself I suppose his advice is sincere. He wants toknow why I don't take a view of French life; and it's a fact thatI want very much to see the new Republic. Mr. Bantling doesn'tcare much about the Republic, but he thinks of going over toParis anyway. I must say he's quite as attentive as I could wish,and at least I shall have seen one polite Englishman. I keeptelling Mr. Bantling that he ought to have been an American,and you should see how that pleases him. Whenever I say so healways breaks out with the same exclamation— 'Ah, but really,come now!" A few days later she wrote that she had decided togo to Paris at the end of the week and that Mr. Banding hadpromised to see her off—perhaps even would go as far asDover with her. She would wait in Paris till Isabel should ar-rive, Henrietta added; speaking quite as if Isabel were to starton her continental journey alone and making no allusion toMrs. Touchett. Bearing in mind his interest in their late com-panion, our heroine communicated several passages from thiscorrespondence to Ralph, who followed with an emotion akinto suspense the career of the representative of the Interviewer.

"It seems to me she's doing very well," he said, "going over toParis with an ex-Lancer! If she wants something to write aboutshe has only to describe that episode."

"It's not conventional, certainly," Isabel answered; "but if youmean that—as far as Henrietta is concerned—it's not perfectlyinnocent, you're very much mistaken. You'll never understandHenrietta."

"Pardon me, I understand her perfectly. I didn't at all at first,but now I've the point of view. I'm afraid, however, that Bant-ling hasn't; he may have some surprises. Oh, I understand Hen-rietta as well as if I had made her!"

Isabel was by no means sure of this, but she abstained fromexpressing further doubt, for she was disposed in these days toextend a great charity to her cousin. One afternoon less than aweek after Madame Merle's departure she was seated in thelibrary with a volume to which her attention was not fastened.She had placed herself in a deep window-bench, from whichshe looked out into the dull, damp park; and as the librarystood at right angles to the entrance-front of the house shecould see the doctor's brougham, which had been waiting forthe last two hours before the door. She was struck with his

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remaining so long, but at last she saw him appear in the por-tico, stand a moment slowly drawing on his gloves and lookingat the knees of his horse, and then get into the vehicle and rollaway. Isabel kept her place for half an hour; there was a greatstillness in the house. It was so great that when she at lastheard a soft, slow step on the deep carpet of the room she wasalmost startled by the sound. She turned quickly away from thewindow and saw Ralph Touchett standing there with his handsstill in his pockets, but with a face absolutely void of its usuallatent smile. She got up and her movement and glance were aquestion.

"It's all over," said Ralph."Do you mean that my uncle… ?" And Isabel stopped."My dear father died an hour ago.""Ah, my poor Ralph!" she gently wailed, putting out her two

hands to him.

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Chapter 20Some fortnight after this Madame Merle drove up in a hansomcab to the house in Winchester Square. As she descended fromher vehicle she observed, suspended between the dining-roomwindows, a large, neat, wooden tablet, on whose fresh blackground were inscribed in white paint the words—"This noblefreehold mansion to be sold"; with the name of the agent towhom application should be made. "They certainly lose notime," said the visitor as, after sounding the big brass knocker,she waited to be admitted; "it's a practical country!" And with-in the house, as she ascended to the drawing-room, she per-ceived numerous signs of abdication; pictures removed fromthe walls and placed upon sofas, windows undraped and floorslaid bare. Mrs. Touchett presently received her and intimatedin a few words that condolences might be taken for granted.

"I know what you're going to say—he was a very good man.But I know it better than any one, because I gave him morechance to show it. In that I think I was a good wife." Mrs.Touchett added that at the end her husband apparently recog-nised this fact. "He has treated me most liberally," she said; "Iwon't say more liberally than I expected, because I didn't ex-pect. You know that as a general thing I don't expect. But hechose, I presume, to recognise the fact that though I livedmuch abroad and mingled— you may say freely—in foreign life,I never exhibited the smallest preference for any one else."

"For any one but yourself," Madame Merle mentally ob-served; but the reflexion was perfectly inaudible.

"I never sacrificed my husband to another," Mrs. Touchettcontinued with her stout curtness.

"Oh no," thought Madame Merle; "you never did anything foranother!"

There was a certain cynicism in these mute comments whichdemands an explanation; the more so as they are not in accord

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either with the view—somewhat superficial perhaps—that wehave hitherto enjoyed of Madame Merle's character or with theliteral facts of Mrs. Touchett's history; the more so, too, as Ma-dame Merle had a well-founded conviction that her friend's lastremark was not in the least to be construed as a side-thrust atherself. The truth is that the moment she had crossed thethreshold she received an impression that Mr. Touchett's deathhad had subtle consequences and that these consequences hadbeen profitable to a little circle of persons among whom shewas not numbered. Of course it was an event which would nat-urally have consequences; her imagination had more than oncerested upon this fact during her stay at Gardencourt. But it hadbeen one thing to foresee such a matter mentally and anotherto stand among its massive records. The idea of a distributionof property—she would almost have said of spoils—just nowpressed upon her senses and irritated her with a sense of ex-clusion. I am far from wishing to picture her as one of thehungry mouths or envious hearts of the general herd, but wehave already learned of her having desires that had never beensatisfied. If she had been questioned, she would of course haveadmitted—with a fine proud smile—that she had not thefaintest claim to a share in Mr. Touchett's relics. "There wasnever anything in the world between us," she would have said."There was never that, poor man!"—with a fillip of her thumband her third finger. I hasten to add, moreover, that if shecouldn't at the present moment keep from quite perverselyyearning she was careful not to betray herself. She had afterall as much sympathy for Mrs. Touchett's gains as for herlosses.

"He has left me this house," the newly-made widow said; "butof course I shall not live in it; I've a much better one inFlorence. The will was opened only three days since, but I'vealready offered the house for sale. I've also a share in the bank;but I don't yet understand if I'm obliged to leave it there. If notI shall certainly take it out. Ralph, of course, has Gardencourt;but I'm not sure that he'll have means to keep up the place.He's naturally left very well off, but his father has given awayan immense deal of money; there are bequests to a string ofthird cousins in Vermont. Ralph, however, is very fond ofGardencourt and would be quite capable of living there—in

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summer—with a maid-of-all-work and a gardener's boy. There'sone remarkable clause in my husband's will," Mrs. Touchett ad-ded. "He has left my niece a fortune."

"A fortune!" Madame Merle softly repeated."Isabel steps into something like seventy thousand pounds."

Madame Merle's hands were clasped in her lap; at this sheraised them, still clasped, and held them a moment against herbosom while her eyes, a little dilated, fixed themselves onthose of her friend. "Ah," she cried, "the clever creature!"

Mrs. Touchett gave her a quick look. "What do you mean bythat?"

For an instant Madame Merle's colour rose and she droppedher eyes. "It certainly is clever to achieve such results—withoutan effort!"

"There assuredly was no effort. Don't call it an achievement."Madame Merle was seldom guilty of the awkwardness of re-

tracting what she had said; her wisdom was shown rather inmaintaining it and placing it in a favourable light. "My dearfriend, Isabel would certainly not have had seventy thousandpounds left her if she had not been the most charming girl inthe world. Her charm includes great cleverness."

"She never dreamed, I'm sure, of my husband's doing any-thing for her; and I never dreamed of it either, for he neverspoke to me of his intention," Mrs. Touchett said. "She had noclaim upon him whatever; it was no great recommendation tohim that she was my niece. Whatever she achieved sheachieved unconsciously."

"Ah," rejoined Madame Merle, "those are the greateststrokes!" Mrs. Touchett reserved her opinion. "The girl's fortu-nate; I don't deny that. But for the present she's simplystupefied."

"Do you mean that she doesn't know what to do with themoney?"

"That, I think, she has hardly considered. She doesn't knowwhat to think about the matter at all. It has been as if a big gunwere suddenly fired off behind her; she's feeling herself to seeif she be hurt. It's but three days since she received a visitfrom the principal executor, who came in person, very gal-lantly, to notify her. He told me afterwards that when he hadmade his little speech she suddenly burst into tears. The

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money's to remain in the affairs of the bank, and she's to drawthe interest."

Madame Merle shook her head with a wise and now quite be-nignant smile. "How very delicious! After she has done thattwo or three times she'll get used to it." Then after a silence,"What does your son think of it?" she abruptly asked.

"He left England before the will was read—used up by his fa-tigue and anxiety and hurrying off to the south. He's on his wayto the Riviera and I've not yet heard from him. But it's notlikely he'll ever object to anything done by his father."

"Didn't you say his own share had been cut down?""Only at his wish. I know that he urged his father to do

something for the people in America. He's not in the least ad-dicted to looking after number one."

"It depends upon whom he regards as number one!" said Ma-dame Merle. And she remained thoughtful a moment, her eyesbent on the floor.

"Am I not to see your happy niece?" she asked at last as sheraised them.

"You may see her; but you'll not be struck with her beinghappy. She has looked as solemn, these three days, as a Cim-abue Madonna!" And Mrs. Touchett rang for a servant.

Isabel came in shortly after the footman had been sent to callher; and Madame Merle thought, as she appeared, that Mrs.Touchett's comparison had its force. The girl was pale andgrave —an effect not mitigated by her deeper mourning; butthe smile of her brightest moments came into her face as shesaw Madame Merle, who went forward, laid her hand on ourheroine's shoulder and, after looking at her a moment, kissedher as if she were returning the kiss she had received from herat Gardencourt. This was the only allusion the visitor, in hergreat good taste, made for the present to her young friend'sinheritance.

Mrs. Touchett had no purpose of awaiting in London the saleof her house. After selecting from among its furniture the ob-jects she wished to transport to her other abode, she left therest of its contents to be disposed of by the auctioneer andtook her departure for the Continent. She was of course ac-companied on this journey by her niece, who now had plenty ofleisure to measure and weigh and otherwise handle the

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windfall on which Madame Merle had covertly congratulatedher. Isabel thought very often of the fact of her accession ofmeans, looking at it in a dozen different lights; but we shall notnow attempt to follow her train of thought or to explain exactlywhy her new consciousness was at first oppressive. This failureto rise to immediate joy was indeed but brief; the girl presentlymade up her mind that to be rich was a virtue because it wasto be able to do, and that to do could only be sweet. It was thegraceful contrary of the stupid side of weakness—especiallythe feminine variety. To be weak was, for a delicate young per-son, rather graceful, but, after all, as Isabel said to herself,there was a larger grace than that. Just now, it is true, therewas not much to do—once she had sent off a cheque to Lily andanother to poor Edith; but she was thankful for the quietmonths which her mourning robes and her aunt's fresh widow-hood compelled them to spend together. The acquisition ofpower made her serious; she scrutinised her power with a kindof tender ferocity, but was not eager to exercise it. She beganto do so during a stay of some weeks which she eventuallymade with her aunt in Paris, though in ways that will inevitablypresent themselves as trivial. They were the ways most natur-ally imposed in a city in which the shops are the admiration ofthe world, and that were prescribed unreservedly by the guid-ance of Mrs. Touchett, who took a rigidly practical view of thetransformation of her niece from a poor girl to a rich one."Now that you're a young woman of fortune you must knowhow to play the part—I mean to play it well," she said to Isabelonce for all; and she added that the girl's first duty was to haveeverything handsome. "You don't know how to take care ofyour things, but you must learn," she went on; this was Isabel'ssecond duty. Isabel submitted, but for the present her imagina-tion was not kindled; she longed for opportunities, but thesewere not the opportunities she meant.

Mrs. Touchett rarely changed her plans, and, having inten-ded before her husband's death to spend a part of the winter inParis, saw no reason to deprive herself—still less to depriveher companion—of this advantage. Though they would live ingreat retirement she might still present her niece, informally,to the little circle of her fellow countrymen dwelling upon theskirts of the Champs Elysees. With many of these amiable

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colonists Mrs. Touchett was intimate; she shared their expatri-ation, their convictions, their pastimes, their ennui. Isabel sawthem arrive with a good deal of assiduity at her aunt's hotel,and pronounced on them with a trenchancy doubtless to be ac-counted for by the temporary exaltation of her sense of humanduty. She made up her mind that their lives were, though lux-urious, inane, and incurred some disfavour by expressing thisview on bright Sunday afternoons, when the American absent-ees were engaged in calling on each other. Though her listen-ers passed for people kept exemplarily genial by their cooksand dressmakers, two or three of them thought her cleverness,which was generally admitted, inferior to that of the new theat-rical pieces. "You all live here this way, but what does it leadto?" she was pleased to ask. "It doesn't seem to lead to any-thing, and I should think you'd get very tired of it."

Mrs. Touchett thought the question worthy of HenriettaStackpole. The two ladies had found Henrietta in Paris, andIsabel constantly saw her; so that Mrs. Touchett had somereason for saying to herself that if her niece were not cleverenough to originate almost anything, she might be suspected ofhaving borrowed that style of remark from her journalisticfriend. The first occasion on which Isabel had spoken was thatof a visit paid by the two ladies to Mrs. Luce, an old friend ofMrs. Touchett's and the only person in Paris she now went tosee. Mrs. Luce had been living in Paris since the days of LouisPhilippe; she used to say jocosely that she was one of the gen-eration of 1830—a joke of which the point was not alwaystaken. When it failed Mrs. Luce used to explain—"Oh yes, I'mone of the romantics;" her French had never become quite per-fect. She was always at home on Sunday afternoons and sur-rounded by sympathetic compatriots, usually the same. In factshe was at home at all times, and reproduced with wondroustruth in her well-cushioned little corner of the brilliant city, thedomestic tone of her native Baltimore. This reduced Mr. Luce,her worthy husband, a tall, lean, grizzled, well-brushed gentle-man who wore a gold eye-glass and carried his hat a little toomuch on the back of his head, to mere platonic praise of the"distractions" of Paris —they were his great word—since youwould never have guessed from what cares he escaped tothem. One of them was that he went every day to the American

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banker's, where he found a post-office that was almost as soci-able and colloquial an institution as in an American countrytown. He passed an hour (in fine weather) in a chair in theChamps Elysees, and he dined uncommonly well at his owntable, seated above a waxed floor which it was Mrs. Luce'shappiness to believe had a finer polish than any other in theFrench capital. Occasionally he dined with a friend or two atthe Cafe Anglais, where his talent for ordering a dinner was asource of felicity to his companions and an object of admirationeven to the headwaiter of the establishment. These were hisonly known pastimes, but they had beguiled his hours for up-wards of half a century, and they doubtless justified his fre-quent declaration that there was no place like Paris. In no oth-er place, on these terms, could Mr. Luce flatter himself that hewas enjoying life. There was nothing like Paris, but it must beconfessed that Mr. Luce thought less highly of this scene of hisdissipations than in earlier days. In the list of his resources hispolitical reflections should not be omitted, for they were doubt-less the animating principle of many hours that superficiallyseemed vacant. Like many of his fellow colonists Mr. Luce wasa high—or rather a deep—conservative, and gave no counten-ance to the government lately established in France. He had nofaith in its duration and would assure you from year to yearthat its end was close at hand. "They want to be kept down, sir,to be kept down; nothing but the strong hand—the ironheel—will do for them," he would frequently say of the Frenchpeople; and his ideal of a fine showy clever rule was that of thesuperseded Empire. "Paris is much less attractive than in thedays of the Emperor; HE knew how to make a city pleasant,"Mr. Luce had often remarked to Mrs. Touchett, who was quiteof his own way of thinking and wished to know what one hadcrossed that odious Atlantic for but to get away from republics.

"Why, madam, sitting in the Champs Elysees, opposite to thePalace of Industry, I've seen the court-carriages from theTuileries pass up and down as many as seven times a day. I re-member one occasion when they went as high as nine. What doyou see now? It's no use talking, the style's all gone. Napoleonknew what the French people want, and there'll be a darkcloud over Paris, our Paris, till they get the Empire backagain."

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Among Mrs. Luce's visitors on Sunday afternoons was ayoung man with whom Isabel had had a good deal of conversa-tion and whom she found full of valuable knowledge. Mr. Ed-ward Rosier—Ned Rosier as he was called—was native to NewYork and had been brought up in Paris, living there under theeye of his father who, as it happened, had been an early and in-timate friend of the late Mr. Archer. Edward Rosier re-membered Isabel as a little girl; it had been his father whocame to the rescue of the small Archers at the inn at Neufcha-tel (he was travelling that way with the boy and had stopped atthe hotel by chance), after their bonne had gone off with theRussian prince and when Mr. Archer's whereabouts remainedfor some days a mystery. Isabel remembered perfectly the neatlittle male child whose hair smelt of a delicious cosmetic andwho had a bonne all his own, warranted to lose sight of him un-der no provocation. Isabel took a walk with the pair beside thelake and thought little Edward as pretty as an angel—a com-parison by no means conventional in her mind, for she had avery definite conception of a type of features which she sup-posed to be angelic and which her new friend perfectly illus-trated. A small pink face surmounted by a blue velvet bonnetand set off by a stiff embroidered collar had become the coun-tenance of her childish dreams; and she had firmly believed forsome time afterwards that the heavenly hosts conversedamong themselves in a queer little dialect of French-English,expressing the properest sentiments, as when Edward told herthat he was "defended" by his bonne to go near the edge of thelake, and that one must always obey to one's bonne. NedRosier's English had improved; at least it exhibited in a less de-gree the French variation. His father was dead and his bonnedismissed, but the young man still conformed to the spirit oftheir teaching —he never went to the edge of the lake. Therewas still something agreeable to the nostrils about him andsomething not offensive to nobler organs. He was a very gentleand gracious youth, with what are called cultivated tastes—anacquaintance with old china, with good wine, with the bindingsof books, with the Almanach de Gotha, with the best shops, thebest hotels, the hours of railway-trains. He could order a din-ner almost as well as Mr. Luce, and it was probable that as hisexperience accumulated he would be a worthy successor to

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that gentleman, whose rather grim politics he also advocatedin a soft and innocent voice. He had some charming rooms inParis, decorated with old Spanish altar-lace, the envy of his fe-male friends, who declared that his chimney-piece was betterdraped than the high shoulders of many a duchess. He usually,however, spent a part of every winter at Pau, and had oncepassed a couple of months in the United States.

He took a great interest in Isabel and remembered perfectlythe walk at Neufchatel, when she would persist in going sonear the edge. He seemed to recognise this same tendency inthe subversive enquiry that I quoted a moment ago, and sethimself to answer our heroine's question with greater urbanitythan it perhaps deserved. "What does it lead to, Miss Archer?Why Paris leads everywhere. You can't go anywhere unless youcome here first. Every one that comes to Europe has got topass through. You don't mean it in that sense so much? Youmean what good it does you? Well, how can you penetrate fu-turity? How can you tell what lies ahead? If it's a pleasant roadI don't care where it leads. I like the road, Miss Archer; I likethe dear old asphalte. You can't get tired of it—you can't if youtry. You think you would, but you wouldn't; there's alwayssomething new and fresh. Take the Hotel Drouot, now; theysometimes have three and four sales a week. Where can youget such things as you can here? In spite of all they say I main-tain they're cheaper too, if you know the right places. I knowplenty of places, but I keep them to myself. I'll tell you, if youlike, as a particular favour; only you mustn't tell any one else.Don't you go anywhere without asking me first; I want you topromise me that. As a general thing avoid the Boulevards;there's very little to be done on the Boulevards. Speaking con-scientiously—sans blague—I don't believe any one knows Parisbetter than I. You and Mrs. Touchett must come and breakfastwith me some day, and I'll show you my things; je ne vous disque ca! There has been a great deal of talk about London oflate; it's the fashion to cry up London. But there's nothing init—you can't do anything in London. No Louis Quinze—nothingof the First Empire; nothing but their eternal Queen Anne. It'sgood for one's bed-room, Queen Anne—for one's washing-room; but it isn't proper for a salon. Do I spend my life at theauctioneer's?" Mr. Rosier pursued in answer to another

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question of Isabel's. "Oh no; I haven't the means. I wish I had.You think I'm a mere trifler; I can tell by the expression of yourface—you've got a wonderfully expressive face. I hope youdon't mind my saying that; I mean it as a kind of warning. Youthink I ought to do something, and so do I, so long as you leaveit vague. But when you come to the point you see you have tostop. I can't go home and be a shopkeeper. You think I'm verywell fitted? Ah, Miss Archer, you overrate me. I can buy verywell, but I can't sell; you should see when I sometimes try toget rid of my things. It takes much more ability to make otherpeople buy than to buy yourself. When I think how clever theymust be, the people who make ME buy! Ah no; I couldn't be ashopkeeper. I can't be a doctor; it's a repulsive business. I can'tbe a clergyman; I haven't got convictions. And then I can't pro-nounce the names right in the Bible. They're very difficult, inthe Old Testament particularly. I can't be a lawyer; I don't un-derstand—how do you call it?—the American procedure. Isthere anything else? There's nothing for a gentleman in Amer-ica. I should like to be a diplomatist; but American dip-lomacy—that's not for gentlemen either. I'm sure if you hadseen the last min—"

Henrietta Stackpole, who was often with her friend when Mr.Rosier, coming to pay his compliments late in the afternoon,expressed himself after the fashion I have sketched, usually in-terrupted the young man at this point and read him a lectureon the duties of the American citizen. She thought him mostunnatural; he was worse than poor Ralph Touchett. Henrietta,however, was at this time more than ever addicted to fine criti-cism, for her conscience had been freshly alarmed as regardsIsabel. She had not congratulated this young lady on her aug-mentations and begged to be excused from doing so.

"If Mr. Touchett had consulted me about leaving you themoney," she frankly asserted, "I'd have said to him 'Never!"

"I see," Isabel had answered. "You think it will prove a cursein disguise. Perhaps it will."

"Leave it to some one you care less for—that's what I shouldhave said."

"To yourself for instance?" Isabel suggested jocosely. Andthen, "Do you really believe it will ruin me?" she asked in quiteanother tone.

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"I hope it won't ruin you; but it will certainly confirm yourdangerous tendencies."

"Do you mean the love of luxury—of extravagance?""No, no," said Henrietta; "I mean your exposure on the moral

side. I approve of luxury; I think we ought to be as elegant aspossible. Look at the luxury of our western cities; I've seennothing over here to compare with it. I hope you'll never be-come grossly sensual; but I'm not afraid of that. The peril foryou is that you live too much in the world of your own dreams.You're not enough in contact with reality—with the toiling,striving, suffering, I may even say sinning, world that sur-rounds you. You're too fastidious; you've too many graceful illu-sions. Your newly-acquired thousands will shut you up moreand more to the society of a few selfish and heartless peoplewho will be interested in keeping them up."

Isabel's eyes expanded as she gazed at this lurid scene."What are my illusions?" she asked. "I try so hard not to haveany."

"Well," said Henrietta, "you think you can lead a romanticlife, that you can live by pleasing yourself and pleasing others.You'll find you're mistaken. Whatever life you lead you mustput your soul in it—to make any sort of success of it; and fromthe moment you do that it ceases to be romance, I assure you:it becomes grim reality! And you can't always please yourself;you must sometimes please other people. That, I admit, you'revery ready to do; but there's another thing that's still more im-portant—you must often displease others. You must always beready for that—you must never shrink from it. That doesn't suityou at all—you're too fond of admiration, you like to be thoughtwell of. You think we can escape disagreeable duties by takingromantic views—that's your great illusion, my dear. But wecan't. You must be prepared on many occasions in life to pleaseno one at all—not even yourself."

Isabel shook her head sadly; she looked troubled andfrightened. "This, for you, Henrietta," she said, "must be one ofthose occasions!"

It was certainly true that Miss Stackpole, during her visit toParis, which had been professionally more remunerative thanher English sojourn, had not been living in the world ofdreams. Mr. Bantling, who had now returned to England, was

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her companion for the first four weeks of her stay; and aboutMr. Bantling there was nothing dreamy. Isabel learned fromher friend that the two had led a life of great personal intimacyand that this had been a peculiar advantage to Henrietta, ow-ing to the gentleman's remarkable knowledge of Paris. He hadexplained everything, shown her everything, been her constantguide and interpreter. They had breakfasted together, dinedtogether, gone to the theatre together, supped together, reallyin a manner quite lived together. He was a true friend, Henri-etta more than once assured our heroine; and she had neversupposed that she could like any Englishman so well. Isabelcould not have told you why, but she found something thatministered to mirth in the alliance the correspondent of the In-terviewer had struck with Lady Pensil's brother; her amuse-ment moreover subsisted in face of the fact that she thought ita credit to each of them. Isabel couldn't rid herself of a suspi-cion that they were playing somehow at cross-purposes—thatthe simplicity of each had been entrapped. But this simplicitywas on either side none the less honourable. It was as gracefulon Henrietta's part to believe that Mr. Bantling took an in-terest in the diffusion of lively journalism and in consolidatingthe position of lady-correspondents as it was on the part of hiscompanion to suppose that the cause of the Interviewer—aperiodical of which he never formed a very definite concep-tion—was, if subtly analysed (a task to which Mr. Bantling felthimself quite equal), but the cause of Miss Stackpole's need ofdemonstrative affection. Each of these groping celibates sup-plied at any rate a want of which the other was impatientlyconscious. Mr. Bantling, who was of rather a slow and a dis-cursive habit, relished a prompt, keen, positive woman, whocharmed him by the influence of a shining, challenging eye anda kind of bandbox freshness, and who kindled a perception ofraciness in a mind to which the usual fare of life seemed un-salted. Henrietta, on the other hand, enjoyed the society of agentleman who appeared somehow, in his way, made, by ex-pensive, roundabout, almost "quaint" processes, for her use,and whose leisured state, though generally indefensible, was adecided boon to a breathless mate, and who was furnishedwith an easy, traditional, though by no means exhaustive, an-swer to almost any social or practical question that could come

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up. She often found Mr. Bantling's answers very convenient,and in the press of catching the American post would largelyand showily address them to publicity. It was to be feared thatshe was indeed drifting toward those abysses of sophisticationas to which Isabel, wishing for a good-humoured retort, hadwarned her. There might be danger in store for Isabel; but itwas scarcely to be hoped that Miss Stackpole, on her side,would find permanent rest in any adoption of the views of aclass pledged to all the old abuses. Isabel continued to warnher good-humouredly; Lady Pensil's obliging brother wassometimes, on our heroine's lips, an object of irreverent and fa-cetious allusion. Nothing, however, could exceed Henrietta'samiability on this point; she used to abound in the sense ofIsabel's irony and to enumerate with elation the hours she hadspent with this perfect man of the world—a term that hadceased to make with her, as previously, for opprobrium. Then,a few moments later, she would forget that they had been talk-ing jocosely and would mention with impulsive earnestnesssome expedition she had enjoyed in his company. She wouldsay: "Oh, I know all about Versailles; I went there with Mr.Bantling. I was bound to see it thoroughly—I warned him whenwe went out there that I was thorough: so we spent three daysat the hotel and wandered all over the place. It was lovelyweather —a kind of Indian summer, only not so good. We justlived in that park. Oh yes; you can't tell me anything about Ver-sailles." Henrietta appeared to have made arrangements tomeet her gallant friend during the spring in Italy.

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Chapter 21Mrs. Touchett, before arriving in Paris, had fixed the day forher departure and by the middle of February had begun totravel southward. She interrupted her journey to pay a visit toher son, who at San Remo, on the Italian shore of the Mediter-ranean, had been spending a dull, bright winter beneath aslow-moving white umbrella. Isabel went with her aunt as amatter of course, though Mrs. Touchett, with homely, custom-ary logic, had laid before her a pair of alternatives.

"Now, of course, you're completely your own mistress andare as free as the bird on the bough. I don't mean you were notso before, but you're at present on a different footing—prop-erty erects a kind of barrier. You can do a great many things ifyou're rich which would be severely criticised if you were poor.You can go and come, you can travel alone, you can have yourown establishment: I mean of course if you'll take a compan-ion—some decayed gentlewoman, with a darned cashmere anddyed hair, who paints on velvet. You don't think you'd like that?Of course you can do as you please; I only want you to under-stand how much you're at liberty. You might take Miss Stack-pole as your dame de compagnie; she'd keep people off verywell. I think, however, that it's a great deal better you shouldremain with me, in spite of there being no obligation. It's bet-ter for several reasons, quite apart from your liking it. Ishouldn't think you'd like it, but I recommend you to make thesacrifice. Of course whatever novelty there may have been atfirst in my society has quite passed away, and you see me as Iam—a dull, obstinate, narrow-minded old woman."

"I don't think you're at all dull," Isabel had replied to this."But you do think I'm obstinate and narrow-minded? I told

you so!" said Mrs. Touchett with much elation at beingjustified.

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Isabel remained for the present with her aunt, because, inspite of eccentric impulses, she had a great regard for whatwas usually deemed decent, and a young gentlewoman withoutvisible relations had always struck her as a flower without fo-liage. It was true that Mrs. Touchett's conversation had neveragain appeared so brilliant as that first afternoon in Albany,when she sat in her damp waterproof and sketched the oppor-tunities that Europe would offer to a young person of taste.This, however, was in a great measure the girl's own fault; shehad got a glimpse of her aunt's experience, and her imagina-tion constantly anticipated the judgements and emotions of awoman who had very little of the same faculty. Apart from this,Mrs. Touchett had a great merit; she was as honest as a pair ofcompasses. There was a comfort in her stiffness and firmness;you knew exactly where to find her and were never liable tochance encounters and concussions. On her own ground shewas perfectly present, but was never over-inquisitive as re-gards the territory of her neighbour. Isabel came at last tohave a kind of undemonstrable pity for her; there seemedsomething so dreary in the condition of a person whose naturehad, as it were, so little surface—offered so limited a face tothe accretions of human contact. Nothing tender, nothing sym-pathetic, had ever had a chance to fasten upon it—no wind-sown blossom, no familiar softening moss. Her offered, herpassive extent, in other words, was about that of a knife-edge.Isabel had reason to believe none the less that as she advancedin life she made more of those concessions to the sense ofsomething obscurely distinct from convenience—more of themthan she independently exacted. She was learning to sacrificeconsistency to considerations of that inferior order for whichthe excuse must be found in the particular case. It was not tothe credit of her absolute rectitude that she should have gonethe longest way round to Florence in order to spend a fewweeks with her invalid son; since in former years it had beenone of her most definite convictions that when Ralph wished tosee her he was at liberty to remember that Palazzo Crescentinicontained a large apartment known as the quarter of thesignorino.

"I want to ask you something," Isabel said to this young manthe day after her arrival at San Remo—"something I've thought

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more than once of asking you by letter, but that I've hesitatedon the whole to write about. Face to face, nevertheless, myquestion seems easy enough. Did you know your father inten-ded to leave me so much money?"

Ralph stretched his legs a little further than usual and gazeda little more fixedly at the Mediterranean.

"What does it matter, my dear Isabel, whether I knew? Myfather was very obstinate."

"So," said the girl, "you did know.""Yes; he told me. We even talked it over a little." "What did

he do it for?" asked Isabel abruptly. "Why, as a kind ofcompliment."

"A compliment on what?""On your so beautifully existing.""He liked me too much," she presently declared."That's a way we all have.""If I believed that I should be very unhappy. Fortunately I

don't believe it. I want to be treated with justice; I want noth-ing but that."

"Very good. But you must remember that justice to a lovelybeing is after all a florid sort of sentiment."

"I'm not a lovely being. How can you say that, at the very mo-ment when I'm asking such odious questions? I must seem toyou delicate!"

"You seem to me troubled," said Ralph."I am troubled.""About what?"For a moment she answered nothing; then she broke out: "Do

you think it good for me suddenly to be made so rich? Henri-etta doesn't."

"Oh, hang Henrietta!" said Ralph coarsely, "If you ask me I'mdelighted at it."

"Is that why your father did it—for your amusement?""I differ with Miss Stackpole," Ralph went on more gravely.

"I think it very good for you to have means."Isabel looked at him with serious eyes. "I wonder whether

you know what's good for me—or whether you care.""If I know depend upon it I care. Shall I tell you what it is?

Not to torment yourself.""Not to torment you, I suppose you mean."

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"You can't do that; I'm proof. Take things more easily. Don'task yourself so much whether this or that is good for you. Don'tquestion your conscience so much—it will get out of tune like astrummed piano. Keep it for great occasions. Don't try so muchto form your character—it's like trying to pull open a tight,tender young rose. Live as you like best, and your characterwill take care of itself. Most things are good for you; the excep-tions are very rare, and a comfortable income's not one ofthem." Ralph paused, smiling; Isabel had listened quickly."You've too much power of thought—above all too much con-science," Ralph added. "It's out of all reason, the number ofthings you think wrong. Put back your watch. Diet your fever.Spread your wings; rise above the ground. It's never wrong todo that."

She had listened eagerly, as I say; and it was her nature tounderstand quickly. "I wonder if you appreciate what you say.If you do, you take a great responsibility."

"You frighten me a little, but I think I'm right," said Ralph,persisting in cheer.

"All the same what you say is very true," Isabel pursued."You could say nothing more true. I'm absorbed in myself—Ilook at life too much as a doctor's prescription. Why indeedshould we perpetually be thinking whether things are good forus, as if we were patients lying in a hospital? Why should I beso afraid of not doing right? As if it mattered to the worldwhether I do right or wrong!"

"You're a capital person to advise," said Ralph; "you take thewind out of my sails!"

She looked at him as if she had not heard him—though shewas following out the train of reflexion which he himself hadkindled. "I try to care more about the world than about my-self—but I always come back to myself. It's because I'm afraid."She stopped; her voice had trembled a little. "Yes, I'm afraid; Ican't tell you. A large fortune means freedom, and I'm afraid ofthat. It's such a fine thing, and one should make such a gooduse of it. If one shouldn't one would be ashamed. And one mustkeep thinking; it's a constant effort. I'm not sure it's not agreater happiness to be powerless."

"For weak people I've no doubt it's a greater happiness. Forweak people the effort not to be contemptible must be great."

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"And how do you know I'm not weak?" Isabel asked."Ah," Ralph answered with a flush that the girl noticed, "if

you are I'm awfully sold!"The charm of the Mediterranean coast only deepened for our

heroine on acquaintance, for it was the threshold of Italy, thegate of admirations. Italy, as yet imperfectly seen and felt,stretched before her as a land of promise, a land in which alove of the beautiful might be comforted by endless knowledge.Whenever she strolled upon the shore with her cousin—andshe was the companion of his daily walk—she looked across thesea, with longing eyes, to where she knew that Genoa lay. Shewas glad to pause, however, on the edge of this larger adven-ture; there was such a thrill even in the preliminary hovering.It affected her moreover as a peaceful interlude, as a hush ofthe drum and fife in a career which she had little warrant asyet for regarding as agitated, but which nevertheless she wasconstantly picturing to herself by the light of her hopes, herfears, her fancies, her ambitions, her predilections, and whichreflected these subjective accidents in a manner sufficientlydramatic. Madame Merle had predicted to Mrs. Touchett thatafter their young friend had put her hand into her pocket half adozen times she would be reconciled to the idea that it hadbeen filled by a munificent uncle; and the event justified, as ithad so often justified before, that lady's perspicacity. RalphTouchett had praised his cousin for being morally inflammable,that is for being quick to take a hint that was meant as goodadvice. His advice had perhaps helped the matter; she had atany rate before leaving San Remo grown used to feeling rich.The consciousness in question found a proper place in rather adense little group of ideas that she had about herself, and oftenit was by no means the least agreeable. It took perpetually forgranted a thousand good intentions. She lost herself in a mazeof visions; the fine things to be done by a rich, independent,generous girl who took a large human view of occasions andobligations were sublime in the mass. Her fortune thereforebecame to her mind a part of her better self; it gave her im-portance, gave her even, to her own imagination, a certainideal beauty. What it did for her in the imagination of others isanother affair, and on this point we must also touch in time.The visions I have just spoken of were mixed with other

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debates. Isabel liked better to think of the future than of thepast; but at times, as she listened to the murmur of the Medi-terranean waves, her glance took a backward flight. It restedupon two figures which, in spite of increasing distance, werestill sufficiently salient; they were recognisable without diffi-culty as those of Caspar Goodwood and Lord Warburton. It wasstrange how quickly these images of energy had fallen into thebackground of our young lady's life. It was in her disposition atall times to lose faith in the reality of absent things; she couldsummon back her faith, in case of need, with an effort, but theeffort was often painful even when the reality had been pleas-ant. The past was apt to look dead and its revival rather toshow the livid light of a judgement-day. The girl moreover wasnot prone to take for granted that she herself lived in the mindof others—she had not the fatuity to believe she left indelibletraces. She was capable of being wounded by the discoverythat she had been forgotten; but of all liberties the one she her-self found sweetest was the liberty to forget. She had not givenher last shilling, sentimentally speaking, either to CasparGoodwood or to Lord Warburton, and yet couldn't but feelthem appreciably in debt to her. She had of course remindedherself that she was to hear from Mr. Goodwood again; but thiswas not to be for another year and a half, and in that time agreat many things might happen. She had indeed failed to sayto herself that her American suitor might find some other girlmore comfortable to woo; because, though it was certain manyother girls would prove so, she had not the smallest belief thatthis merit would attract him. But she reflected that she herselfmight know the humiliation of change, might really, for thatmatter, come to the end of the things that were not Caspar(even though there appeared so many of them), and find rest inthose very elements of his presence which struck her now asimpediments to the finer respiration. It was conceivable thatthese impediments should some day prove a sort of blessing indisguise—a clear and quiet harbour enclosed by a brave gran-ite breakwater. But that day could only come in its order, andshe couldn't wait for it with folded hands. That Lord Warburtonshould continue to cherish her image seemed to her more thana noble humility or an enlightened pride ought to wish to reck-on with. She had so definitely undertaken to preserve no

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record of what had passed between them that a correspondingeffort on his own part would be eminently just. This was not, asit may seem, merely a theory tinged with sarcasm. Isabel can-didly believed that his lordship would, in the usual phrase, getover his disappointment. He had been deeply affected—this shebelieved, and she was still capable of deriving pleasure fromthe belief; but it was absurd that a man both so intelligent andso honourably dealt with should cultivate a scar out of propor-tion to any wound. Englishmen liked moreover to be comfort-able, said Isabel, and there could be little comfort for LordWarburton, in the long run, in brooding over a self-sufficientAmerican girl who had been but a casual acquaintance. Sheflattered herself that, should she hear from one day to anotherthat he had married some young woman of his own countrywho had done more to deserve him, she should receive thenews without a pang even of surprise. It would have provedthat he believed she was firm—which was what she wished toseem to him. That alone was grateful to her pride.

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Chapter 22On one of the first days of May, some six months after old Mr.Touchett's death, a small group that might have been de-scribed by a painter as composing well was gathered in one ofthe many rooms of an ancient villa crowning an olive-muffledhill outside of the Roman gate of Florence. The villa was a long,rather blank-looking structure, with the far-projecting roofwhich Tuscany loves and which, on the hills that encircleFlorence, when considered from a distance, makes so harmoni-ous a rectangle with the straight, dark, definite cypresses thatusually rise in groups of three or four beside it. The house hada front upon a little grassy, empty, rural piazza which occupieda part of the hill-top; and this front, pierced with a few win-dows in irregular relations and furnished with a stone benchlengthily adjusted to the base of the structure and useful as alounging-place to one or two persons wearing more or less ofthat air of undervalued merit which in Italy, for some reason orother, always gracefully invests any one who confidently as-sumes a perfectly passive attitude—this antique, solid,weather-worn, yet imposing front had a somewhat incommu-nicative character. It was the mask, not the face of the house.It had heavy lids, but no eyes; the house in reality looked an-other way—looked off behind, into splendid openness and therange of the afternoon light. In that quarter the villa overhungthe slope of its hill and the long valley of the Arno, hazy withItalian colour. It had a narrow garden, in the manner of a ter-race, productive chiefly of tangles of wild roses and other oldstone benches, mossy and sun-warmed. The parapet of the ter-race was just the height to lean upon, and beneath it theground declined into the vagueness of olive-crops and vine-yards. It is not, however, with the outside of the place that weare concerned; on this bright morning of ripened spring its ten-ants had reason to prefer the shady side of the wall. The

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windows of the ground-floor, as you saw them from the piazza,were, in their noble proportions, extremely architectural; buttheir function seemed less to offer communication with theworld than to defy the world to look in. They were massivelycross-barred, and placed at such a height that curiosity, evenon tiptoe, expired before it reached them. In an apartmentlighted by a row of three of these jealous apertures—one of theseveral distinct apartments into which the villa was dividedand which were mainly occupied by foreigners of random racelong resident in Florence—a gentleman was seated in companywith a young girl and two good sisters from a religious house.The room was, however, less sombre than our indications mayhave represented, for it had a wide, high door, which nowstood open into the tangled garden behind; and the tall ironlattices admitted on occasion more than enough of the Italiansunshine. It was moreover a seat of ease, indeed of luxury,telling of arrangements subtly studied and refinements franklyproclaimed, and containing a variety of those faded hangingsof damask and tapestry, those chests and cabinets of carvedand time-polished oak, those angular specimens of pictorial artin frames as pedantically primitive, those perverse-looking rel-ics of medieval brass and pottery, of which Italy has long beenthe not quite exhausted storehouse. These things kept termswith articles of modern furniture in which large allowance hadbeen made for a lounging generation; it was to be noticed thatall the chairs were deep and well padded and that much spacewas occupied by a writing-table of which the ingenious perfec-tion bore the stamp of London and the nineteenth century.There were books in profusion and magazines and newspapers,and a few small, odd, elaborate pictures, chiefly in water-col-our. One of these productions stood on a drawing-room easelbefore which, at the moment we begin to be concerned withher, the young girl I have mentioned had placed herself. Shewas looking at the picture in silence.

Silence—absolute silence—had not fallen upon her compan-ions; but their talk had an appearance of embarrassed continu-ity. The two good sisters had not settled themselves in their re-spective chairs; their attitude expressed a final reserve andtheir faces showed the glaze of prudence. They were plain,ample, mild-featured women, with a kind of business-like

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modesty to which the impersonal aspect of their stiffened linenand of the serge that draped them as if nailed on frames gavean advantage. One of them, a person of a certain age, in spec-tacles, with a fresh complexion and a full cheek, had a morediscriminating manner than her colleague, as well as the re-sponsibility of their errand, which apparently related to theyoung girl. This object of interest wore her hat—an ornamentof extreme simplicity and not at variance with her plain muslingown, too short for her years, though it must already havebeen "let out." The gentleman who might have been supposedto be entertaining the two nuns was perhaps conscious of thedifficulties of his function, it being in its way as arduous to con-verse with the very meek as with the very mighty. At the sametime he was clearly much occupied with their quiet charge, andwhile she turned her back to him his eyes rested gravely onher slim, small figure. He was a man of forty, with a high butwell-shaped head, on which the hair, still dense, but prema-turely grizzled, had been cropped close. He had a fine, narrow,extremely modelled and composed face, of which the only faultwas just this effect of its running a trifle too much to points; anappearance to which the shape of the beard contributed not alittle. This beard, cut in the manner of the portraits of the six-teenth century and surmounted by a fair moustache, of whichthe ends had a romantic upward flourish, gave its wearer a for-eign, traditionary look and suggested that he was a gentlemanwho studied style. His conscious, curious eyes, however, eyesat once vague and penetrating, intelligent and hard, expressiveof the observer as well as of the dreamer, would have assuredyou that he studied it only within well-chosen limits, and that inso far as he sought it he found it. You would have been much ata loss to determine his original clime and country; he had noneof the superficial signs that usually render the answer to thisquestion an insipidly easy one. If he had English blood in hisveins it had probably received some French or Italian commix-ture; but he suggested, fine gold coin as he was, no stamp noremblem of the common mintage that provides for general cir-culation; he was the elegant complicated medal struck off for aspecial occasion. He had a light, lean, rather languid-lookingfigure, and was apparently neither tall nor short. He was

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dressed as a man dresses who takes little other trouble about itthan to have no vulgar things.

"Well, my dear, what do you think of it?" he asked of theyoung girl. He used the Italian tongue, and used it with perfectease; but this would not have convinced you he was Italian.

The child turned her head earnestly to one side and the oth-er. "It's very pretty, papa. Did you make it yourself?"

"Certainly I made it. Don't you think I'm clever?""Yes, papa, very clever; I also have learned to make pic-

tures." And she turned round and showed a small, fair facepainted with a fixed and intensely sweet smile.

"You should have brought me a specimen of your powers.""I've brought a great many; they're in my trunk.""She draws very—very carefully," the elder of the nuns re-

marked, speaking in French."I'm glad to hear it. Is it you who have instructed her?""Happily no," said the good sister, blushing a little. "Ce n'est

pas ma partie. I teach nothing; I leave that to those who arewiser. We've an excellent drawing-master, Mr.—Mr.—what ishis name?" she asked of her companion.

Her companion looked about at the carpet. "It's a Germanname," she said in Italian, as if it needed to be translated.

"Yes," the other went on, "he's a German, and we've had himmany years."

The young girl, who was not heeding the conversation, hadwandered away to the open door of the large room and stoodlooking into the garden. "And you, my sister, are French," saidthe gentleman.

"Yes, sir," the visitor gently replied. "I speak to the pupils inmy own tongue. I know no other. But we have sisters of othercountries—English, German, Irish. They all speak their properlanguage."

The gentleman gave a smile. "Has my daughter been underthe care of one of the Irish ladies?" And then, as he saw thathis visitors suspected a joke, though failing to understand it,"You're very complete," he instantly added.

"Oh, yes, we're complete. We've everything, and everything'sof the best."

"We have gymnastics," the Italian sister ventured to remark."But not dangerous."

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"I hope not. Is that YOUR branch?" A question which pro-voked much candid hilarity on the part of the two ladies; on thesubsidence of which their entertainer, glancing at his daugh-ter, remarked that she had grown.

"Yes, but I think she has finished. She'll remain—not big,"said the French sister.

"I'm not sorry. I prefer women like books—very good and nottoo long. But I know," the gentleman said, "no particular reas-on why my child should be short."

The nun gave a temperate shrug, as if to intimate that suchthings might be beyond our knowledge. "She's in very goodhealth; that's the best thing."

"Yes, she looks sound." And the young girl's father watchedher a moment. "What do you see in the garden?" he asked inFrench.

"I see many flowers," she replied in a sweet, small voice andwith an accent as good as his own.

"Yes, but not many good ones. However, such as they are, goout and gather some for ces dames."

The child turned to him with her smile heightened by pleas-ure. "May I, truly?"

"Ah, when I tell you," said her father.The girl glanced at the elder of the nuns. "May I, truly, ma

mere?""Obey monsieur your father, my child," said the sister, blush-

ing again.The child, satisfied with this authorisation, descended from

the threshold and was presently lost to sight. "You don't spoilthem," said her father gaily.

"For everything they must ask leave. That's our system.Leave is freely granted, but they must ask it."

"Oh, I don't quarrel with your system; I've no doubt it's excel-lent. I sent you my daughter to see what you'd make of her. Ihad faith."

"One must have faith," the sister blandly rejoined, gazingthrough her spectacles.

"Well, has my faith been rewarded What have you made ofher?"

The sister dropped her eyes a moment. "A good Christian,monsieur."

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Her host dropped his eyes as well; but it was probable thatthe movement had in each case a different spring. "Yes, andwhat else?"

He watched the lady from the convent, probably thinking shewould say that a good Christian was everything; but for all hersimplicity she was not so crude as that. "A charming younglady —a real little woman—a daughter in whom you will havenothing but contentment."

"She seems to me very gentille," said the father. "She's reallypretty."

"She's perfect. She has no faults.""She never had any as a child, and I'm glad you have given

her none.""We love her too much," said the spectacled sister with

dignity."And as for faults, how can we give what we have not? Le

couvent n'est pas comme le monde, monsieur. She's our daugh-ter, as you may say. We've had her since she was so small."

"Of all those we shall lose this year she's the one we shallmiss most," the younger woman murmured deferentially.

"Ah, yes, we shall talk long of her," said the other. "We shallhold her up to the new ones." And at this the good sister ap-peared to find her spectacles dim; while her companion, afterfumbling a moment, presently drew forth a pocket-handker-chief of durable texture.

"It's not certain you'll lose her; nothing's settled yet," theirhost rejoined quickly; not as if to anticipate their tears, but inthe tone of a man saying what was most agreeable to himself."We should be very happy to believe that. Fifteen is very youngto leave us."

"Oh," exclaimed the gentleman with more vivacity than hehad yet used, "it is not I who wish to take her away. I wish youcould keep her always!"

"Ah, monsieur," said the elder sister, smiling and getting up,"good as she is, she's made for the world. Le monde ygagnera."

"If all the good people were hidden away in convents howwould the world get on?" her companion softly enquired, risingalso.

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This was a question of a wider bearing than the good womanapparently supposed; and the lady in spectacles took a har-monising view by saying comfortably: "Fortunately there aregood people everywhere."

"If you're going there will be two less here," her host re-marked gallantly.

For this extravagant sally his simple visitors had no answer,and they simply looked at each other in decent deprecation;but their confusion was speedily covered by the return of theyoung girl with two large bunches of roses—one of them allwhite, the other red.

"I give you your choice, mamman Catherine," said the child."It's only the colour that's different, mamman Justine; there arejust as many roses in one bunch as in the other."

The two sisters turned to each other, smiling and hesitating,with "Which will you take?" and "No, it's for you to choose."

"I'll take the red, thank you," said Catherine in the spec-tacles. "I'm so red myself. They'll comfort us on our way backto Rome."

"Ah, they won't last," cried the young girl. I wish I could giveyou something that would last!"

"You've given us a good memory of yourself, my daughter.That will last!"

"I wish nuns could wear pretty things. I would give you myblue beads," the child went on.

"And do you go back to Rome to-night?" her father enquired."Yes, we take the train again. We've so much to do la-bas.""Are you not tired?""We are never tired.""Ah, my sister, sometimes," murmured the junior votaress."Not to-day, at any rate. We have rested too well here. Que

Dieu vows garde, ma fine."Their host, while they exchanged kisses with his daughter,

went forward to open the door through which they were topass; but as he did so he gave a slight exclamation, and stoodlooking beyond. The door opened into a vaulted ante-chamber,as high as a chapel and paved with red tiles; and into this ante-chamber a lady had just been admitted by a servant, a lad inshabby livery, who was now ushering her toward the apart-ment in which our friends were grouped. The gentleman at the

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door, after dropping his exclamation, remained silent; in si-lence too the lady advanced. He gave her no further audiblegreeting and offered her no hand, but stood aside to let herpass into the saloon. At the threshold she hesitated. "Is thereany one?" she asked.

"Some one you may see."She went in and found herself confronted with the two nuns

and their pupil, who was coming forward, between them, witha hand in the arm of each. At the sight of the new visitor theyall paused, and the lady, who had also stopped, stood lookingat them. The young girl gave a little soft cry: "Ah, MadameMerle!"

The visitor had been slightly startled, but her manner thenext instant was none the less gracious. "Yes, it's MadameMerle, come to welcome you home." And she held out twohands to the girl, who immediately came up to her, presentingher forehead to be kissed. Madame Merle saluted this portionof her charming little person and then stood smiling at the twonuns. They acknowledged her smile with a decent obeisance,but permitted themselves no direct scrutiny of this imposing,brilliant woman, who seemed to bring in with her something ofthe radiance of the outer world. "These ladies have brought mydaughter home, and now they return to the convent," the gen-tleman explained.

"Ah, you go back to Rome? I've lately come from there. It'svery lovely now," said Madame Merle.

The good sisters, standing with their hands folded into theirsleeves, accepted this statement uncritically; and the master ofthe house asked his new visitor how long it was since she hadleft Rome. "She came to see me at the convent," said the younggirl before the lady addressed had time to reply.

"I've been more than once, Pansy," Madame Merle declared."Am I not your great friend in Rome?"

"I remember the last time best," said Pansy, "because youtold me I should come away."

"Did you tell her that?" the child's father asked."I hardly remember. I told her what I thought would please

her. I've been in Florence a week. I hoped you would come tosee me."

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"I should have done so if I had known you were there. Onedoesn't know such things by inspiration—though I suppose oneought. You had better sit down."

These two speeches were made in a particular tone ofvoice—a tone half-lowered and carefully quiet, but as fromhabit rather than from any definite need. Madame Merlelooked about her, choosing her seat. "You're going to the doorwith these women? Let me of course not interrupt the cere-mony. Je vous salue, mesdames," she added, in French, to thenuns, as if to dismiss them.

"This lady's a great friend of ours; you will have seen her atthe convent," said their entertainer. "We've much faith in herjudgement, and she'll help me to decide whether my daughtershall return to you at the end of the holidays."

"I hope you'll decide in our favour, madame," the sister inspectacles ventured to remark.

"That's Mr. Osmond's pleasantry; I decide nothing," said Ma-dame Merle, but also as in pleasantry. "I believe you've a verygood school, but Miss Osmond's friends must remember thatshe's very naturally meant for the world."

"That's what I've told monsieur," sister Catherine answered."It's precisely to fit her for the world," she murmured, glancingat Pansy, who stood, at a little distance, attentive to MadameMerle's elegant apparel.

"Do you hear that, Pansy? You're very naturally meant for theworld," said Pansy's father.

The child fixed him an instant with her pure young eyes. "AmI not meant for you, papa?"

Papa gave a quick, light laugh. "That doesn't prevent it! I'mof the world, Pansy."

"Kindly permit us to retire," said sister Catherine. "Be goodand wise and happy in any case, my daughter."

"I shall certainly come back and see you," Pansy returned, re-commencing her embraces, which were presently interruptedby Madame Merle.

"Stay with me, dear child," she said, "while your father takesthe good ladies to the door."

Pansy stared, disappointed, yet not protesting. She was evid-ently impregnated with the idea of submission, which was dueto any one who took the tone of authority; and she was a

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passive spectator of the operation of her fate. "May I not seemamman Catherine get into the carriage?" she neverthelessasked very gently.

"It would please me better if you'd remain with me," said Ma-dame Merle, while Mr. Osmond and his companions, who hadbowed low again to the other visitor, passed into the ante-chamber.

"Oh yes, I'll stay," Pansy answered; and she stood near Ma-dame Merle, surrendering her little hand, which this lady took.She stared out of the window; her eyes had filled with tears.

"I'm glad they've taught you to obey," said Madame Merle."That's what good little girls should do."

"Oh yes, I obey very well," cried Pansy with soft eagerness,almost with boastfulness, as if she had been speaking of herpiano-playing. And then she gave a faint, just audible sigh.

Madame Merle, holding her hand, drew it across her ownfine palm and looked at it. The gaze was critical, but it foundnothing to deprecate; the child's small hand was delicate andfair. "I hope they always see that you wear gloves," she said ina moment. "Little girls usually dislike them."

"I used to dislike them, but I like them now," the child madeanswer.

"Very good, I'll make you a present of a dozen.""I thank you very much. What colours will they be?" Pansy

demanded with interest.Madame Merle meditated. "Useful colours.""But very pretty?""Are you very fond of pretty things?""Yes; but—but not too fond," said Pansy with a trace of

asceticism."Well, they won't be too pretty," Madame Merle returned

with a laugh. She took the child's other hand and drew hernearer; after which, looking at her a moment, "Shall you missmother Catherine?" she went on.

"Yes—when I think of her.""Try then not to think of her. Perhaps some day," added Ma-

dame Merle, "you'll have another mother.""I don't think that's necessary," Pansy said, repeating her

little soft conciliatory sigh. "I had more than thirty mothers atthe convent."

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Her father's step sounded again in the antechamber, and Ma-dame Merle got up, releasing the child. Mr. Osmond came inand closed the door; then, without looking at Madame Merle,he pushed one or two chairs back into their places. His visitorwaited a moment for him to speak, watching him as he movedabout. Then at last she said: "I hoped you'd have come toRome. I thought it possible you'd have wished yourself to fetchPansy away."

"That was a natural supposition; but I'm afraid it's not thefirst time I've acted in defiance of your calculations."

"Yes," said Madame Merle, "I think you very perverse."Mr. Osmond busied himself for a moment in the room—there

was plenty of space in it to move about—in the fashion of aman mechanically seeking pretexts for not giving an attentionwhich may be embarrassing. Presently, however, he had ex-hausted his pretexts; there was nothing left for him—unless hetook up a book—but to stand with his hands behind him lookingat Pansy. "Why didn't you come and see the last of mammanCatherine?" he asked of her abruptly in French.

Pansy hesitated a moment, glancing at Madame Merle. "Iasked her to stay with me," said this lady, who had seated her-self again in another place.

"Ah, that was better," Osmond conceded. With which hedropped into a chair and sat looking at Madame Merle; bentforward a little, his elbows on the edge of the arms and hishands interlocked.

"She's going to give me some gloves," said Pansy."You needn't tell that to every one, my dear," Madame Merle

observed."You're very kind to her," said Osmond. "She's supposed to

have everything she needs.""I should think she had had enough of the nuns.""If we're going to discuss that matter she had better go out

of the room.""Let her stay," said Madame Merle. "We'll talk of something

else.""If you like I won't listen," Pansy suggested with an appear-

ance of candour which imposed conviction."You may listen, charming child, because you won't under-

stand," her father replied. The child sat down, deferentially,

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near the open door, within sight of the garden, into which shedirected her innocent, wistful eyes; and Mr. Osmond went onirrelevantly, addressing himself to his other companion."You're looking particularly well."

"I think I always look the same," said Madame Merle."You always ARE the same. You don't vary. You're a wonder-

ful woman.""Yes, I think I am.""You sometimes change your mind, however. You told me on

your return from England that you wouldn't leave Rome againfor the present."

"I'm pleased that you remember so well what I say. That wasmy intention. But I've come to Florence to meet some friendswho have lately arrived and as to whose movements I was atthat time uncertain."

"That reason's characteristic. You're always doing somethingfor your friends."

Madame Merle smiled straight at her host. "It's less charac-teristic than your comment upon it which is perfectly insincere.I don't, however, make a crime of that," she added, "because ifyou don't believe what you say there's no reason why youshould. I don't ruin myself for my friends; I don't deserve yourpraise. I care greatly for myself."

"Exactly; but yourself includes so many other selves—somuch of every one else and of everything. I never knew a per-son whose life touched so many other lives."

"What do you call one's life?" asked Madame Merle. "One'sappearance, one's movements, one's engagements, one'ssociety?"

"I call YOUR life your ambitions," said Osmond.Madame Merle looked a moment at Pansy. "I wonder if she

understands that," she murmured."You see she can't stay with us!" And Pansy's father gave

rather a joyless smile. "Go into the garden, mignonne, andpluck a flower or two for Madame Merle," he went on inFrench.

"That's just what I wanted to do," Pansy exclaimed, risingwith promptness and noiselessly departing. Her father followedher to the open door, stood a moment watching her, and thencame back, but remained standing, or rather strolling to and

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fro, as if to cultivate a sense of freedom which in another atti-tude might be wanting.

"My ambitions are principally for you," said Madame Merle,looking up at him with a certain courage.

"That comes back to what I say. I'm part of your life—I and athousand others. You're not selfish—I can't admit that. If youwere selfish, what should I be? What epithet would properlydescribe me?"

"You're indolent. For me that's your worst fault.""I'm afraid it's really my best.""You don't care," said Madame Merle gravely."No; I don't think I care much. What sort of a fault do you

call that? My indolence, at any rate, was one of the reasons Ididn't go to Rome. But it was only one of them."

"It's not of importance—to me at least—that you didn't go;though I should have been glad to see you. I'm glad you're notin Rome now—which you might be, would probably be, if youhad gone there a month ago. There's something I should likeyou to do at present in Florence."

"Please remember my indolence," said Osmond."I do remember it; but I beg you to forget it. In that way

you'll have both the virtue and the reward. This is not a greatlabour, and it may prove a real interest. How long is it sinceyou made a new acquaintance?"

"I don't think I've made any since I made yours.""It's time then you should make another. There's a friend of

mine I want you to know."Mr. Osmond, in his walk, had gone back to the open door

again and was looking at his daughter as she moved about inthe intense sunshine. "What good will it do me?" he asked witha sort of genial crudity.

Madame Merle waited. "It will amuse you." There was noth-ing crude in this rejoinder; it had been thoroughly wellconsidered.

"If you say that, you know, I believe it," said Osmond, comingtoward her. "There are some points in which my confidence inyou is complete. I'm perfectly aware, for instance, that youknow good society from bad."

"Society is all bad."

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"Pardon me. That isn't—the knowledge I impute to you—acommon sort of wisdom. You've gained it in the right way—ex-perimentally; you've compared an immense number of more orless impossible people with each other."

"Well, I invite you to profit by my knowledge.""To profit? Are you very sure that I shall?""It's what I hope. It will depend on yourself. If I could only in-

duce you to make an effort!""Ah, there you are! I knew something tiresome was coming.

What in the world—that's likely to turn up here—is worth aneffort?"

Madame Merle flushed as with a wounded intention. "Don'tbe foolish, Osmond. No one knows better than you what ISworth an effort. Haven't I seen you in old days?"

"I recognise some things. But they're none of them probablein this poor life."

"It's the effort that makes them probable," said MadameMerle.

"There's something in that. Who then is your friend?""The person I came to Florence to see. She's a niece of Mrs.

Touchett, whom you'll not have forgotten.""A niece? The word niece suggests youth and ignorance. I

see what you're coming to.""Yes, she's young—twenty-three years old. She's a great

friend of mine. I met her for the first time in England, severalmonths ago, and we struck up a grand alliance. I like her im-mensely, and I do what I don't do every day—I admire her.You'll do the same."

"Not if I can help it.""Precisely. But you won't be able to help it.""Is she beautiful, clever, rich, splendid, universally intelligent

and unprecedentedly virtuous? It's only on those conditionsthat I care to make her acquaintance. You know I asked yousome time ago never to speak to me of a creature whoshouldn't correspond to that description. I know plenty ofdingy people; I don't want to know any more."

"Miss Archer isn't dingy; she's as bright as the morning. Shecorresponds to your description; it's for that I wish you to knowher. She fills all your requirements."

"More or less, of course."

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"No; quite literally. She's beautiful, accomplished, generousand, for an American, well-born. She's also very clever andvery amiable, and she has a handsome fortune."

Mr. Osmond listened to this in silence, appearing to turn itover in his mind with his eyes on his informant. "What do youwant to do with her?" he asked at last.

"What you see. Put her in your way.""Isn't she meant for something better than that?""I don't pretend to know what people are meant for," said

Madame Merle. "I only know what I can do with them.""I'm sorry for Miss Archer!" Osmond declared.Madame Merle got up. "If that's a beginning of interest in

her I take note of it."The two stood there face to face; she settled her mantilla,

looking down at it as she did so. "You're looking very well," Os-mond repeated still less relevantly than before. "You havesome idea. You're never so well as when you've got an idea;they're always becoming to you."

In the manner and tone of these two persons, on first meet-ing at any juncture, and especially when they met in the pres-ence of others, was something indirect and circumspect, as ifthey had approached each other obliquely and addressed eachother by implication. The effect of each appeared to be to in-tensify to an appreciable degree the self-consciousness of theother. Madame Merle of course carried off any embarrassmentbetter than her friend; but even Madame Merle had not on thisoccasion the form she would have liked to have—the perfectself-possession she would have wished to wear for her host.The point to be made is, however, that at a certain moment theelement between them, whatever it was, always levelled itselfand left them more closely face to face than either ever waswith any one else. This was what had happened now. Theystood there knowing each other well and each on the wholewilling to accept the satisfaction of knowing as a compensationfor the inconvenience—whatever it might be—of being known."I wish very much you were not so heartless," Madame Merlequietly said. "It has always been against you, and it will beagainst you now."

"I'm not so heartless as you think. Every now and thensomething touches me—as for instance your saying just now

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that your ambitions are for me. I don't understand it; I don'tsee how or why they should be. But it touches me, all thesame."

"You'll probably understand it even less as time goes on.There are some things you'll never understand. There's no par-ticular need you should."

"You, after all, are the most remarkable of women," said Os-mond. "You have more in you than almost any one. I don't seewhy you think Mrs. Touchett's niece should matter very muchto me, when— when—" But he paused a moment.

"When I myself have mattered so little?""That of course is not what I meant to say. When I've known

and appreciated such a woman as you.""Isabel Archer's better than I," said Madame Merle.Her companion gave a laugh. "How little you must think of

her to say that!""Do you suppose I'm capable of jealousy? Please answer me

that.""With regard to me? No; on the whole I don't.""Come and see me then, two days hence. I'm staying at Mrs.

Touchett's—Palazzo Crescentini—and the girl will be there.""Why didn't you ask me that at first simply, without speaking

of the girl?" said Osmond. "You could have had her there at anyrate."

Madame Merle looked at him in the manner of a womanwhom no question he could ever put would find unprepared."Do you wish to know why? Because I've spoken of you to her."

Osmond frowned and turned away. "I'd rather not knowthat." Then in a moment he pointed out the easel supportingthe little water-colour drawing. "Have you seen what'sthere—my last?"

Madame Merle drew near and considered. "Is it the VenetianAlps—one of your last year's sketches?"

"Yes—but how you guess everything!"She looked a moment longer, then turned away. "You know I

don't care for your drawings.""I know it, yet I'm always surprised at it. They're really so

much better than most people's."

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"That may very well be. But as the only thing you do—well,it's so little. I should have liked you to do so many other things:those were my ambitions."

"Yes; you've told me many times—things that wereimpossible."

"Things that were impossible," said Madame Merle. And thenin quite a different tone: "In itself your little picture's verygood." She looked about the room—at the old cabinets, pic-tures, tapestries, surfaces of faded silk. "Your rooms at leastare perfect. I'm struck with that afresh whenever I come back;I know none better anywhere. You understand this sort of thingas nobody anywhere does. You've such adorable taste."

"I'm sick of my adorable taste," said Gilbert Osmond."You must nevertheless let Miss Archer come and see it. I've

told her about it.""I don't object to showing my things—when people are not

idiots.""You do it delightfully. As cicerone of your museum you ap-

pear to particular advantage."Mr. Osmond, in return for this compliment, simply looked at

once colder and more attentive. "Did you say she was rich?""She has seventy thousand pounds.""En ecus bien comptes?""There's no doubt whatever about her fortune. I've seen it, as

I may say.""Satisfactory woman!—I mean you. And if I go to see her

shall I see the mother?""The mother? She has none—nor father either.""The aunt then—whom did you say?—Mrs. Touchett. I can

easily keep her out of the way.""I don't object to her," said Osmond; "I rather like Mrs.

Touchett. She has a sort of old-fashioned character that'spassing away—a vivid identity. But that long jackanapes theson—is he about the place?"

"He's there, but he won't trouble you.""He's a good deal of a donkey.""I think you're mistaken. He's a very clever man. But he's not

fond of being about when I'm there, because he doesn't likeme."

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"What could he be more asinine than that? Did you say shehas looks?" Osmond went on.

"Yes; but I won't say it again, lest you should be disappointedin them. Come and make a beginning; that's all I ask of you."

"A beginning of what?"Madame Merle was silent a little. "I want you of course to

marry her.""The beginning of the end? Well, I'll see for myself. Have you

told her that?""For what do you take me? She's not so coarse a piece of ma-

chinery—nor am I.""Really," said Osmond after some meditation, "I don't under-

stand your ambitions.""I think you'll understand this one after you've seen Miss

Archer. Suspend your judgement." Madame Merle, as shespoke, had drawn near the open door of the garden, where shestood a moment looking out. "Pansy has really grown pretty,"she presently added.

"So it seemed to me.""But she has had enough of the convent.""I don't know," said Osmond. "I like what they've made of

her. It's very charming.""That's not the convent. It's the child's nature.""It's the combination, I think. She's as pure as a pearl.""Why doesn't she come back with my flowers then?" Madame

Merle asked. "She's not in a hurry.""We'll go and get them.""She doesn't like me," the visitor murmured as she raised her

parasol and they passed into the garden.

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Chapter 23Madame Merle, who had come to Florence on Mrs. Touchett'sarrival at the invitation of this lady—Mrs. Touchett offering herfor a month the hospitality of Palazzo Crescentini—the judi-cious Madame Merle spoke to Isabel afresh about Gilbert Os-mond and expressed the hope she might know him; making,however, no such point of the matter as we have seen her do inrecommending the girl herself to Mr. Osmond's attention. Thereason of this was perhaps that Isabel offered no resistancewhatever to Madame Merle's proposal. In Italy, as in England,the lady had a multitude of friends, both among the natives ofthe country and its heterogeneous visitors. She had mentionedto Isabel most of the people the girl would find it well to"meet"—of course, she said, Isabel could know whomever inthe wide world she would—and had placed Mr. Osmond nearthe top of the list. He was an old friend of her own; she hadknown him these dozen years; he was one of the cleverest andmost agreeable men—well, in Europe simply. He was altogeth-er above the respectable average; quite another affair. Hewasn't a professional charmer—far from it, and the effect heproduced depended a good deal on the state of his nerves andhis spirits. When not in the right mood he could fall as low asany one, saved only by his looking at such hours rather like ademoralised prince in exile. But if he cared or was interestedor rightly challenged—just exactly rightly it had to be—thenone felt his cleverness and his distinction. Those qualitiesdidn't depend, in him, as in so many people, on his not commit-ting or exposing himself. He had his perversities—which in-deed Isabel would find to be the case with all the men reallyworth knowing—and didn't cause his light to shine equally forall persons. Madame Merle, however, thought she could under-take that for Isabel he would be brilliant. He was easily bored,too easily, and dull people always put him out; but a quick and

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cultivated girl like Isabel would give him a stimulus which wastoo absent from his life. At any rate he was a person not tomiss. One shouldn't attempt to live in Italy without making afriend of Gilbert Osmond, who knew more about the countrythan any one except two or three German professors. And ifthey had more knowledge than he it was he who had most per-ception and taste— being artistic through and through. Isabelremembered that her friend had spoken of him during theirplunge, at Gardencourt, into the deeps of talk, and wondered alittle what was the nature of the tie binding these superior spir-its. She felt that Madame Merle's ties always somehow had his-tories, and such an impression was part of the interest createdby this inordinate woman. As regards her relations with Mr.Osmond, however, she hinted at nothing but a long-establishedcalm friendship. Isabel said she should be happy to know a per-son who had enjoyed so high a confidence for so many years."You ought to see a great many men," Madame Merle re-marked; "you ought to see as many as possible, so as to getused to them."

"Used to them?" Isabel repeated with that solemn starewhich sometimes seemed to proclaim her deficient in the senseof comedy. "Why, I'm not afraid of them—I'm as used to themas the cook to the butcher-boys."

"Used to them, I mean, so as to despise them. That's whatone comes to with most of them. You'll pick out, for your soci-ety, the few whom you don't despise."

This was a note of cynicism that Madame Merle didn't oftenallow herself to sound; but Isabel was not alarmed, for she hadnever supposed that as one saw more of the world the senti-ment of respect became the most active of one's emotions. Itwas excited, none the less, by the beautiful city of Florence,which pleased her not less than Madame Merle had promised;and if her unassisted perception had not been able to gauge itscharms she had clever companions as priests to the mystery.She was—in no want indeed of esthetic illumination, for Ralphfound it a joy that renewed his own early passion to act ascicerone to his eager young kinswoman. Madame Merle re-mained at home; she had seen the treasures of Florence againand again and had always something else to do. But she talkedof all things with remarkable vividness of memory—she

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recalled the right-hand corner of the large Perugino and theposition of the hands of the Saint Elizabeth in the picture nextto it. She had her opinions as to the character of many famousworks of art, differing often from Ralph with great sharpnessand defending her interpretations with as much ingenuity asgood-humour. Isabel listened to the discussions taking placebetween the two with a sense that she might derive much be-nefit from them and that they were among the advantages shecouldn't have enjoyed for instance in Albany. In the clear Maymornings before the formal breakfast—this repast at Mrs.Touchett's was served at twelve o'clock—she wandered withher cousin through the narrow and sombre Florentine streets,resting a while in the thicker dusk of some historic church orthe vaulted chambers of some dispeopled convent. She went tothe galleries and palaces; she looked at the pictures andstatues that had hitherto been great names to her, and ex-changed for a knowledge which was sometimes a limitation apresentiment which proved usually to have been a blank. Sheperformed all those acts of mental prostration in which, on afirst visit to Italy, youth and enthusiasm so freely indulge; shefelt her heart beat in the presence of immortal genius andknew the sweetness of rising tears in eyes to which fadedfresco and darkened marble grew dim. But the return, everyday, was even pleasanter than the going forth; the return intothe wide, monumental court of the great house in which Mrs.Touchett, many years before, had established herself, and intothe high, cool rooms where the carven rafters and pompousfrescoes of the sixteenth century looked down on the familiarcommodities of the age of advertisement. Mrs. Touchett inhab-ited an historic building in a narrow street whose very namerecalled the strife of medieval factions; and found compensa-tion for the darkness of her frontage in the modicity of her rentand the brightness of a garden where nature itself looked asarchaic as the rugged architecture of the palace and whichcleared and scented the rooms in regular use. To live in such aplace was, for Isabel, to hold to her ear all day a shell of thesea of the past. This vague eternal rumour kept her imagina-tion awake.

Gilbert Osmond came to see Madame Merle, who presentedhim to the young lady lurking at the other side of the room.

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Isabel took on this occasion little part in the talk; she scarcelyeven smiled when the others turned to her invitingly; she satthere as if she had been at the play and had paid even a largesum for her place. Mrs. Touchett was not present, and thesetwo had it, for the effect of brilliancy, all their own way. Theytalked of the Florentine, the Roman, the cosmopolite world,and might have been distinguished performers figuring for acharity. It all had the rich readiness that would have comefrom rehearsal. Madame Merle appealed to her as if she hadbeen on the stage, but she could ignore any learnt cue withoutspoiling the scene—though of course she thus put dreadfully inthe wrong the friend who had told Mr. Osmond she could bedepended on. This was no matter for once; even if more hadbeen involved she could have made no attempt to shine. Therewas something in the visitor that checked her and held her insuspense—made it more important she should get an impres-sion of him than that she should produce one herself. Besides,she had little skill in producing an impression which she knewto be expected: nothing could be happier, in general, than toseem dazzling, but she had a perverse unwillingness to glitterby arrangement. Mr. Osmond, to do him justice, had a well-bred air of expecting nothing, a quiet ease that coveredeverything, even the first show of his own wit. This was themore grateful as his face, his head, was sensitive; he was nothandsome, but he was fine, as fine as one of the drawings inthe long gallery above the bridge of the Uffizi. And his veryvoice was fine—the more strangely that, with its clearness, ityet somehow wasn't sweet. This had had really to do with mak-ing her abstain from interference. His utterance was the vibra-tion of glass, and if she had put out her finger she might havechanged the pitch and spoiled the concert. Yet before he wentshe had to speak.

"Madame Merle," he said, "consents to come up to my hill-top some day next week and drink tea in my garden. It wouldgive me much pleasure if you would come with her. It'sthought rather pretty— there's what they call a general view.My daughter too would be so glad—or rather, for she's tooyoung to have strong emotions, I should be so glad—so veryglad." And Mr. Osmond paused with a slight air of embarrass-ment, leaving his sentence unfinished. "I should be so happy if

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you could know my daughter," he went on a momentafterwards.

Isabel replied that she should be delighted to see Miss Os-mond and that if Madame Merle would show her the way to thehill-top she should be very grateful. Upon this assurance thevisitor took his leave; after which Isabel fully expected herfriend would scold her for having been so stupid. But to hersurprise that lady, who indeed never fell into the mere matter-of-course, said to her in a few moments

"You were charming, my dear; you were just as one wouldhave wished you. You're never disappointing."

A rebuke might possibly have been irritating, though it ismuch more probable that Isabel would have taken it in goodpart; but, strange to say, the words that Madame Merle actu-ally used caused her the first feeling of displeasure she hadknown this ally to excite. "That's more than I intended," sheanswered coldly. "I'm under no obligation that I know of tocharm Mr. Osmond."

Madame Merle perceptibly flushed, but we know it was nother habit to retract. "My dear child, I didn't speak for him, poorman; I spoke for yourself. It's not of course a question as to hisliking you; it matters little whether he likes you or not! But Ithought you liked HIM."

"I did," said Isabel honestly. "But I don't see what that mat-ters either."

"Everything that concerns you matters to me," MadameMerle returned with her weary nobleness; "especially when atthe same time another old friend's concerned."

Whatever Isabel's obligations may have been to Mr. Osmond,it must be admitted that she found them sufficient to lead herto put to Ralph sundry questions about him. She thoughtRalph's judgements distorted by his trials, but she flatteredherself she had learned to make allowance for that.

"Do I know him?" said her cousin. "Oh, yes, I 'know' him; notwell, but on the whole enough. I've never cultivated his society,and he apparently has never found mine indispensable to hishappiness. Who is he, what is he? He's a vague, unexplainedAmerican who has been living these thirty years, or less, inItaly. Why do I call him unexplained? Only as a cover for my ig-norance; I don't know his antecedents, his family, his origin.

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For all I do know he may be a prince in disguise; he ratherlooks like one, by the way—like a prince who has abdicated in afit of fastidiousness and has been in a state of disgust eversince. He used to live in Rome; but of late years he has takenup his abode here; I remember hearing him say that Rome hasgrown vulgar. He has a great dread of vulgarity; that's his spe-cial line; he hasn't any other that I know of. He lives on his in-come, which I suspect of not being vulgarly large. He's a poorbut honest gentleman that's what he calls himself. He marriedyoung and lost his wife, and I believe he has a daughter. Healso has a sister, who's married to some small Count or other,of these parts; I remember meeting her of old. She's nicer thanhe, I should think, but rather impossible. I remember thereused to be some stories about her. I don't think I recommendyou to know her. But why don't you ask Madame Merle aboutthese people? She knows them all much better than I."

"I ask you because I want your opinion as well as hers," saidIsabel.

"A fig for my opinion! If you fall in love with Mr. Osmondwhat will you care for that?"

"Not much, probably. But meanwhile it has a certain import-ance. The more information one has about one's dangers thebetter."

"I don't agree to that—it may make them dangers. We knowtoo much about people in these days; we hear too much. Ourears, our minds, our mouths, are stuffed with personalities.Don't mind anything any one tells you about any one else.Judge everyone and everything for yourself."

"That's what I try to do," said Isabel "but when you do thatpeople call you conceited."

"You're not to mind them—that's precisely my argument; notto mind what they say about yourself any more than what theysay about your friend or your enemy."

Isabel considered. "I think you're right; but there are somethings I can't help minding: for instance when my friend's at-tacked or when I myself am praised."

"Of course you're always at liberty to judge the critic. Judgepeople as critics, however," Ralph added, "and you'll condemnthem all!"

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"I shall see Mr. Osmond for myself," said Isabel. "I've prom-ised to pay him a visit."

"To pay him a visit?""To go and see his view, his pictures, his daughter—I don't

know exactly what. Madame Merle's to take me; she tells me agreat many ladies call on him."

"Ah, with Madame Merle you may go anywhere, de confi-ance," said Ralph. "She knows none but the best people."

Isabel said no more about Mr. Osmond, but she presently re-marked to her cousin that she was not satisfied with his toneabout Madame Merle. "It seems to me you insinuate thingsabout her. I don't know what you mean, but if you've anygrounds for disliking her I think you should either mentionthem frankly or else say nothing at all."

Ralph, however, resented this charge with more apparentearnestness than he commonly used. "I speak of MadameMerle exactly as I speak to her: with an even exaggeratedrespect."

"Exaggerated, precisely. That's what I complain of.""I do so because Madame Merle's merits are exaggerated.""By whom, pray? By me? If so I do her a poor service.""No, no; by herself.""Ah, I protest!" Isabel earnestly cried. "If ever there was a

woman who made small claims—!""You put your finger on it," Ralph interrupted. "Her

modesty's exaggerated. She has no business with smallclaims—she has a perfect right to make large ones."

"Her merits are large then. You contradict yourself.""Her merits are immense," said Ralph. "She's indescribably

blameless; a pathless desert of virtue; the only woman I knowwho never gives one a chance."

"A chance for what?""Well, say to call her a fool! She's the only woman I know

who has but that one little fault."Isabel turned away with impatience. "I don't understand you;

you're too paradoxical for my plain mind.""Let me explain. When I say she exaggerates I don't mean it

in the vulgar sense—that she boasts, overstates, gives too finean account of herself. I mean literally that she pushes thesearch for perfection too far—that her merits are in themselves

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overstrained. She's too good, too kind, too clever, too learned,too accomplished, too everything. She's too complete, in aword. I confess to you that she acts on my nerves and that Ifeel about her a good deal as that intensely human Athenianfelt about Aristides the Just."

Isabel looked hard at her cousin; but the mocking spirit, if itlurked in his words, failed on this occasion to peep from hisface. "Do you wish Madame Merle to be banished?"

"By no means. She's much too good company. I delight inMadame Merle," said Ralph Touchett simply.

"You're very odious, sir!" Isabel exclaimed. And then sheasked him if he knew anything that was not to the honour ofher brilliant friend.

"Nothing whatever. Don't you see that's just what I mean?On the character of every one else you may find some littleblack speck; if I were to take half an hour to it, some day, I'veno doubt I should be able to find one on yours. For my own, ofcourse, I'm spotted like a leopard. But on Madame Merle'snothing, nothing, nothing!"

"That's just what I think!" said Isabel with a toss of her head."That is why I like her so much."

"She's a capital person for you to know. Since you wish tosee the world you couldn't have a better guide."

"I suppose you mean by that that she's worldly?""Worldly? No," said Ralph, "she's the great round world

itself!"It had certainly not, as Isabel for the moment took it into her

head to believe, been a refinement of malice in him to say thathe delighted in Madame Merle. Ralph Touchett took his re-freshment wherever he could find it, and he would not haveforgiven himself if he had been left wholly unbeguiled by sucha mistress of the social art. There are deep-lying sympathiesand antipathies, and it may have been that, in spite of the ad-ministered justice she enjoyed at his hands, her absence fromhis mother's house would not have made life barren to him. ButRalph Touchett had learned more or less inscrutably to attend,and there could have been nothing so "sustained" to attend toas the general performance of Madame Merle. He tasted her insips, he let her stand, with an opportuneness she herself couldnot have surpassed. There were moments when he felt almost

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sorry for her; and these, oddly enough, were the momentswhen his kindness was least demonstrative. He was sure shehad been yearningly ambitious and that what she had visiblyaccomplished was far below her secret measure. She had gotherself into perfect training, but had won none of the prizes.She was always plain Madame Merle, the widow of a Swiss ne-gociant, with a small income and a large acquaintance, whostayed with people a great deal and was almost as universally"liked" as some new volume of smooth twaddle. The contrastbetween this position and any one of some half-dozen othersthat he supposed to have at various moments engaged herhope had an element of the tragical. His mother thought he goton beautifully with their genial guest; to Mrs. Touchett's sensetwo persons who dealt so largely in too-ingenious theories ofconduct—that is of their own—would have much in common.He had given due consideration to Isabel's intimacy with hereminent friend, having long since made up his mind that hecould not, without opposition, keep his cousin to himself; andhe made the best of it, as he had done of worse things. He be-lieved it would take care of itself; it wouldn't last forever.Neither of these two superior persons knew the other as wellas she supposed, and when each had made an important dis-covery or two there would be, if not a rupture, at least a relaxa-tion. Meanwhile he was quite willing to admit that the conver-sation of the elder lady was an advantage to the younger, whohad a great deal to learn and would doubtless learn it betterfrom Madame Merle than from some other instructors of theyoung. It was not probable that Isabel would be injured.

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Chapter 24It would certainly have been hard to see what injury couldarise to her from the visit she presently paid to Mr. Osmond'shill-top. Nothing could have been more charming than this oc-casion—a soft afternoon in the full maturity of the Tuscanspring. The companions drove out of the Roman Gate, beneaththe enormous blank superstructure which crowns the fine cleararch of that portal and makes it nakedly impressive, andwound between high-walled lanes into which the wealth ofblossoming orchards over-drooped and flung a fragrance, untilthey reached the small superurban piazza, of crooked shape,where the long brown wall of the villa occupied in part by Mr.Osmond formed a principal, or at least a very imposing, object.Isabel went with her friend through a wide, high court, wherea clear shadow rested below and a pair of light-arched galler-ies, facing each other above, caught the upper sunshine upontheir slim columns and the flowering plants in which they weredressed. There was something grave and strong in the place; itlooked somehow as if, once you were in, you would need an actof energy to get out. For Isabel, however, there was of courseas yet no thought of getting out, but only of advancing. Mr. Os-mond met her in the cold ante-chamber—it was cold even inthe month of May—and ushered her, with her conductress, intothe apartment to which we have already been introduced. Ma-dame Merle was in front, and while Isabel lingered a little,talking with him, she went forward familiarly and greeted twopersons who were seated in the saloon. One of these was littlePansy, on whom she bestowed a kiss; the other was a ladywhom Mr. Osmond indicated to Isabel as his sister, the Count-ess Gemini. "And that's my little girl," he said, "who has justcome out of her convent."

Pansy had on a scant white dress, and her fair hair wasneatly arranged in a net; she wore her small shoes tied sandal-

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fashion about her ankles. She made Isabel a little conventualcurtsey and then came to be kissed. The Countess Geminisimply nodded without getting up: Isabel could see she was awoman of high fashion. She was thin and dark and not at allpretty, having features that suggested some tropical bird—along beak-like nose, small, quickly-moving eyes and a mouthand chin that receded extremely. Her expression, however,thanks to various intensities of emphasis and wonder, of horrorand joy, was not inhuman, and, as regards her appearance, itwas plain she understood herself and made the most of herpoints. Her attire, voluminous and delicate, bristling with eleg-ance, had the look of shimmering plumage, and her attitudeswere as light and sudden as those of a creature who perchedupon twigs. She had a great deal of manner; Isabel, who hadnever known any one with so much manner, immediatelyclassed her as the most affected of women. She rememberedthat Ralph had not recommended her as an acquaintance; butshe was ready to acknowledge that to a casual view the Count-ess Gemini revealed no depths. Her demonstrations suggestedthe violent waving of some flag of general truce—white silkwith fluttering streamers.

"You'll believe I'm glad to see you when I tell you it's only be-cause I knew you were to be here that I came myself. I don'tcome and see my brother—I make him come and see me. Thishill of his is impossible—I don't see what possesses him. Really,Osmond, you'll be the ruin of my horses some day, and if ithurts them you'll have to give me another pair. I heard themwheezing to-day; I assure you I did. It's very disagreeable tohear one's horses wheezing when one's sitting in the carriage;it sounds too as if they weren't what they should be. But I've al-ways had good horses; whatever else I may have lacked I've al-ways managed that. My husband doesn't know much, but Ithink he knows a horse. In general Italians don't, but my hus-band goes in, according to his poor light, for everything Eng-lish. My horses are English—so it's all the greater pity theyshould be ruined. I must tell you," she went on, directly ad-dressing Isabel, "that Osmond doesn't often invite me; I don'tthink he likes to have me. It was quite my own idea, coming to-day. I like to see new people, and I'm sure you're very new. But

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don't sit there; that chair's not what it looks. There are somevery good seats here, but there are also some horrors."

These remarks were delivered with a series of little jerks andpecks, of roulades of shrillness, and in an accent that was assome fond recall of good English, or rather of good American,in adversity.

"I don't like to have you, my dear?" said her brother. "I'msure you're invaluable."

"I don't see any horrors anywhere," Isabel returned, lookingabout her. "Everything seems to me beautiful and precious."

"I've a few good things," Mr. Osmond allowed; "indeed I'venothing very bad. But I've not what I should have liked."

He stood there a little awkwardly, smiling and glancingabout; his manner was an odd mixture of the detached and theinvolved. He seemed to hint that nothing but the right "values"was of any consequence. Isabel made a rapid induction: perfectsimplicity was not the badge of his family. Even the little girlfrom the convent, who, in her prim white dress, with her smallsubmissive face and her hands locked before her, stood thereas if she were about to partake of her first communion, evenMr. Osmond's diminutive daughter had a kind of finish thatwas not entirely artless.

"You'd have liked a few things from the Uffzi and the Pitti—that's what you'd have liked," said Madame Merle.

"Poor Osmond, with his old curtains and crucifixes!" theCountess Gemini exclaimed: she appeared to call her brotheronly by his family-name. Her ejaculation had no particular ob-ject; she smiled at Isabel as she made it and looked at her fromhead to foot.

Her brother had not heard her; he seemed to be thinkingwhat he could say to Isabel. "Won't you have some tea?—youmust be very tired," he at last bethought himself of remarking.

"No indeed, I'm not tired; what have I done to tire me?" Isa-bel felt a certain need of being very direct, of pretending tonothing; there was something in the air, in her general impres-sion of things—she could hardly have said what it was—thatdeprived her of all disposition to put herself forward. Theplace, the occasion, the combination of people, signified morethan lay on the surface; she would try to understand—shewould not simply utter graceful platitudes. Poor Isabel was

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doubtless not aware that many women would have utteredgraceful platitudes to cover the working of their observation. Itmust be confessed that her pride was a trifle alarmed. A manshe had heard spoken of in terms that excited interest and whowas evidently capable of distinguishing himself, had invitedher, a young lady not lavish of her favours, to come to hishouse. Now that she had done so the burden of the entertain-ment rested naturally on his wit. Isabel was not rendered lessobservant, and for the moment, we judge, she was notrendered more indulgent, by perceiving that Mr. Osmond car-ried his burden less complacently than might have been expec-ted. "What a fool I was to have let myself so needlessly in—!"she could fancy his exclaiming to himself.

"You'll be tired when you go home, if he shows you all hisbibelots and gives you a lecture on each," said the CountessGemini.

"I'm not afraid of that; but if I'm tired I shall at least havelearned something."

"Very little, I suspect. But my sister's dreadfully afraid oflearning anything," said Mr. Osmond.

"Oh, I confess to that; I don't want to know anything more—Iknow too much already. The more you know the more unhappyyou are."

"You should not undervalue knowledge before Pansy, whohas not finished her education," Madame Merle interposedwith a smile. "Pansy will never know any harm," said thechild's father. "Pansy's a little convent-flower."

"Oh, the convents, the convents!" cried the Countess with aflutter of her ruffles. "Speak to me of the convents! You maylearn anything there; I'm a convent-flower myself. I don't pre-tend to be good, but the nuns do. Don't you see what I mean?"she went on, appealing to Isabel.

Isabel was not sure she saw, and she answered that she wasvery bad at following arguments. The Countess then declaredthat she herself detested arguments, but that this was herbrother's taste —he would always discuss. "For me," she said,"one should like a thing or one shouldn't; one can't likeeverything, of course. But one shouldn't attempt to reason itout—you never know where it may lead you. There are somevery good feelings that may have bad reasons, don't you know?

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And then there are very bad feelings, sometimes, that havegood reasons. Don't you see what I mean? I don't care anythingabout reasons, but I know what I like."

"Ah, that's the great thing," said Isabel, smiling and suspect-ing that her acquaintance with this lightly flitting personagewould not lead to intellectual repose. If the Countess objectedto argument Isabel at this moment had as little taste for it, andshe put out her hand to Pansy with a pleasant sense that sucha gesture committed her to nothing that would admit of a di-vergence of views. Gilbert Osmond apparently took a ratherhopeless view of his sister's tone; he turned the conversation toanother topic. He presently sat down on the other side of hisdaughter, who had shyly brushed Isabel's fingers with her own;but he ended by drawing her out of her chair and making herstand between his knees, leaning against him while he passedhis arm round her slimness. The child fixed her eyes on Isabelwith a still, disinterested gaze which seemed void of an inten-tion, yet conscious of an attraction. Mr. Osmond talked of manythings; Madame Merle had said he could be agreeable when hechose, and to-day, after a little, he appeared not only to havechosen but to have determined. Madame Merle and the Count-ess Gemini sat a little apart, conversing in the effortless man-ner of persons who knew each other well enough to take theirease; but every now and then Isabel heard the Countess, atsomething said by her companion, plunge into the latter's lu-cidity as a poodle splashes after a thrown stick. It was as if Ma-dame Merle were seeing how far she would go. Mr. Osmondtalked of Florence, of Italy, of the pleasure of living in thatcountry and of the abatements to the pleasure. There wereboth satisfactions and drawbacks; the drawbacks were numer-ous; strangers were too apt to see such a world as all romantic.It met the case soothingly for the human, for the social fail-ure—by which he meant the people who couldn't "realise," asthey said, on their sensibility: they could keep it about themthere, in their poverty, without ridicule, as you might keep anheirloom or an inconvenient entailed place that brought you innothing. Thus there were advantages in living in the countrywhich contained the greatest sum of beauty. Certain impres-sions you could get only there. Others, favourable to life, younever got, and you got some that were very bad. But from time

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to time you got one of a quality that made up for everything.Italy, all the same, had spoiled a great many people; he waseven fatuous enough to believe at times that he himself mighthave been a better man if he had spent less of his life there. Itmade one idle and dilettantish and second-rate; it had no dis-cipline for the character, didn't cultivate in you, otherwise ex-pressed, the successful social and other "cheek" that flourishedin Paris and London. "We're sweetly provincial," said Mr. Os-mond, "and I'm perfectly aware that I myself am as rusty as akey that has no lock to fit it. It polishes me up a little to talkwith you—not that I venture to pretend I can turn that verycomplicated lock I suspect your intellect of being! But you'll begoing away before I've seen you three times, and I shall per-haps never see you after that. That's what it is to live in a coun-try that people come to. When they're disagreeable here it'sbad enough; when they're agreeable it's still worse. As soon asyou like them they're off again! I've been deceived too often;I've ceased to form attachments, to permit myself to feel at-tractions. You mean to stay—to settle? That would be reallycomfortable. Ah yes, your aunt's a sort of guarantee; I believeshe may be depended on. Oh, she's an old Florentine; I meanliterally an old one; not a modern outsider. She's a contempor-ary of the Medici; she must have been present at the burningof Savonarola, and I'm not sure she didn't throw a handful ofchips into the flame. Her face is very much like some faces inthe early pictures; little, dry, definite faces that must have hada good deal of expression, but almost always the same one.Indeed I can show you her portrait in a fresco of Ghirlandaio's.I hope you don't object to my speaking that way of your aunt,eh? I've an idea you don't. Perhaps you think that's even worse.I assure you there's no want of respect in it, to either of you.You know I'm a particular admirer of Mrs. Touchett."

While Isabel's host exerted himself to entertain her in thissomewhat confidential fashion she looked occasionally at Ma-dame Merle, who met her eyes with an inattentive smile inwhich, on this occasion, there was no infelicitous intimationthat our heroine appeared to advantage. Madame Merle even-tually proposed to the Countess Gemini that they should go in-to the garden, and the Countess, rising and shaking out herfeathers, began to rustle toward the door. "Poor Miss Archer!"

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she exclaimed, surveying the other group with expressive com-passion. "She has been brought quite into the family."

"Miss Archer can certainly have nothing but sympathy for afamily to which you belong," Mr. Osmond answered, with alaugh which, though it had something of a mocking ring, hadalso a finer patience.

"I don't know what you mean by that! I'm sure she'll see noharm in me but what you tell her. I'm better than he says, MissArcher," the Countess went on. "I'm only rather an idiot and abore. Is that all he has said? Ah then, you keep him in good-hu-mour. Has he opened on one of his favourite subjects? I giveyou notice that there are two or three that he treats a fond. Inthat case you had better take off your bonnet."

"I don't think I know what Mr. Osmond's favourite subjectsare," said Isabel, who had risen to her feet.

The Countess assumed for an instant an attitude of intensemeditation, pressing one of her hands, with the finger-tipsgathered together, to her forehead. "I'll tell you in a moment.One's Machiavelli; the other's Vittoria Colonna; the next isMetastasio."

"Ah, with me," said Madame Merle, passing her arm into theCountess Gemini's as if to guide her course to the garden, "Mr.Osmond's never so historical."

"Oh you," the Countess answered as they moved away, "youyourself are Machiavelli—you yourself are Vittoria Colonna!"

"We shall hear next that poor Madame Merle is Metastasio!"Gilbert Osmond resignedly sighed.

Isabel had got up on the assumption that they too were to gointo the garden; but her host stood there with no apparent in-clination to leave the room, his hands in the pockets of his jack-et and his daughter, who had now locked her arm into one ofhis own, clinging to him and looking up while her eyes movedfrom his own face to Isabel's. Isabel waited, with a certain un-uttered contentedness, to have her movements directed; sheliked Mr. Osmond's talk, his company: she had what alwaysgave her a very private thrill, the consciousness of a new rela-tion. Through the open doors of the great room she saw Ma-dame Merle and the Countess stroll across the fine grass of thegarden; then she turned, and her eyes wandered over thethings scattered about her. The understanding had been that

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Mr. Osmond should show her his treasures; his pictures andcabinets all looked like treasures. Isabel after a moment wenttoward one of the pictures to see it better; but just as she haddone so he said to her abruptly: "Miss Archer, what do youthink of my sister?"

She faced him with some surprise. "Ah, don't ask methat—I've seen your sister too little."

"Yes, you've seen her very little; but you must have observedthat there is not a great deal of her to see. What do you thinkof our family tone?" he went on with his cool smile. "I shouldlike to know how it strikes a fresh, unprejudiced mind. I knowwhat you're going to say—you've had almost no observation ofit. Of course this is only a glimpse. But just take notice, in fu-ture, if you have a chance. I sometimes think we've got into arather bad way, living off here among things and people notour own, without responsibilities or attachments, with nothingto hold us together or keep us up; marrying foreigners, form-ing artificial tastes, playing tricks with our natural mission. Letme add, though, that I say that much more for myself than formy sister. She's a very honest lady—more so than she seems.She's rather unhappy, and as she's not of a serious turn shedoesn't tend to show it tragically: she shows it comically in-stead. She has got a horrid husband, though I'm not sure shemakes the best of him. Of course, however, a horrid husband'san awkward thing. Madame Merle gives her excellent advice,but it's a good deal like giving a child a dictionary to learn alanguage with. He can look out the words, but he can't putthem together. My sister needs a grammar, but unfortunatelyshe's not grammatical. Pardon my troubling you with these de-tails; my sister was very right in saying you've been taken intothe family. Let me take down that picture; you want morelight."

He took down the picture, carried it toward the window, re-lated some curious facts about it. She looked at the otherworks of art, and he gave her such further information asmight appear most acceptable to a young lady making a call ona summer afternoon. His pictures, his medallions andtapestries were interesting; but after a while Isabel felt theowner much more so, and independently of them, thickly asthey seemed to overhang him. He resembled no one she had

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ever seen; most of the people she knew might be divided intogroups of half a dozen specimens. There were one or two ex-ceptions to this; she could think for instance of no group thatwould contain her aunt Lydia. There were other people whowere, relatively speaking, original— original, as one might say,by courtesy such as Mr. Goodwood, as her cousin Ralph, asHenrietta Stackpole, as Lord Warburton, as Madame Merle.But in essentials, when one came to look at them, these indi-viduals belonged to types already present to her mind. Hermind contained no class offering a natural place to Mr. Os-mond—he was a specimen apart. It was not that she recog-nised all these truths at the hour, but they were falling into or-der before her. For the moment she only said to herself thatthis "new relation" would perhaps prove her very most distin-guished. Madame Merle had had that note of rarity, but whatquite other power it immediately gained when sounded by aman! It was not so much what he said and did, but rather whathe withheld, that marked him for her as by one of those signsof the highly curious that he was showing her on the undersideof old plates and in the corner of sixteenth-century drawings:he indulged in no striking deflections from common usage, hewas an original without being an eccentric. She had never meta person of so fine a grain. The peculiarity was physical, to be-gin with, and it extended to impalpabilities. His dense, delicatehair, his overdrawn, retouched features, his clear complexion,ripe without being coarse, the very evenness of the growth ofhis beard, and that light, smooth slenderness of structurewhich made the movement of a single one of his fingers pro-duce the effect of an expressive gesture—these personal pointsstruck our sensitive young woman as signs of quality, of intens-ity, somehow as promises of interest. He was certainly fastidi-ous and critical; he was probably irritable. His sensibility hadgoverned him—possibly governed him too much; it had madehim impatient of vulgar troubles and had led him to live byhimself, in a sorted, sifted, arranged world, thinking about artand beauty and history. He had consulted his taste ineverything—his taste alone perhaps, as a sick man consciouslyincurable consults at last only his lawyer: that was what madehim so different from every one else. Ralph had something ofthis same quality, this appearance of thinking that life was a

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matter of connoisseurship; but in Ralph it was an anomaly, akind of humorous excrescence, whereas in Mr. Osmond it wasthe keynote, and everything was in harmony with it. She wascertainly far from understanding him completely; his meaningwas not at all times obvious. It was hard to see what he meantfor instance by speaking of his provincial side—which was ex-actly the side she would have taken him most to lack. Was it aharmless paradox, intended to puzzle her? or was it the last re-finement of high culture? She trusted she should learn in time;it would be very interesting to learn. If it was provincial tohave that harmony, what then was the finish of the capital?And she could put this question in spite of so feeling her host ashy personage; since such shyness as his—the shyness of tick-lish nerves and fine perceptions—was perfectly consistent withthe best breeding. Indeed it was almost a proof of standardsand touchstones other than the vulgar: he must be so sure thevulgar would be first on the ground. He wasn't a man of easyassurance, who chatted and gossiped with the fluency of a su-perficial nature; he was critical of himself as well as of others,and, exacting a good deal of others, to think them agreeable,probably took a rather ironical view of what he himself offered:a proof into the bargain that he was not grossly conceited. If hehad not been shy he wouldn't have effected that gradual,subtle, successful conversion of it to which she owed both whatpleased her in him and what mystified her. If he had suddenlyasked her what she thought of the Countess Gemini, that wasdoubtless a proof that he was interested in her; it couldscarcely be as a help to knowledge of his own sister. That heshould be so interested showed an enquiring mind; but it was alittle singular he should sacrifice his fraternal feeling to hiscuriosity. This was the most eccentric thing he had done.

There were two other rooms, beyond the one in which shehad been received, equally full of romantic objects, and inthese apartments Isabel spent a quarter of an hour. Everythingwas in the last degree curious and precious, and Mr. Osmondcontinued to be the kindest of ciceroni as he led her from onefine piece to another and still held his little girl by the hand.His kindness almost surprised our young friend, who wonderedwhy he should take so much trouble for her; and she was op-pressed at last with the accumulation of beauty and knowledge

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to which she found herself introduced. There was enough forthe present; she had ceased to attend to what he said; shelistened to him with attentive eyes, but was not thinking ofwhat he told her. He probably thought her quicker, cleverer inevery way, more prepared, than she was. Madame Merle wouldhave pleasantly exaggerated; which was a pity, because in theend he would be sure to find out, and then perhaps even herreal intelligence wouldn't reconcile him to his mistake. A partof Isabel's fatigue came from the effort to appear as intelligentas she believed Madame Merle had described her, and fromthe fear (very unusual with her) of exposing—not her ignor-ance; for that she cared comparatively little—but her possiblegrossness of perception. It would have annoyed her to expressa liking for something he, in his superior enlightenment, wouldthink she oughtn't to like; or to pass by something at which thetruly initiated mind would arrest itself. She had no wish to fallinto that grotesqueness— in which she had seen women (and itwas a warning) serenely, yet ignobly, flounder. She was verycareful therefore as to what she said, as to what she noticed orfailed to notice; more careful than she had ever been before.

They came back into the first of the rooms, where the teahad been served; but as the two other ladies were still on theterrace, and as Isabel had not yet been made acquainted withthe view, the paramount distinction of the place, Mr. Osmonddirected her steps into the garden without more delay. Ma-dame Merle and the Countess had had chairs brought out, andas the afternoon was lovely the Countess proposed they shouldtake their tea in the open air. Pansy therefore was sent to bidthe servant bring out the preparations. The sun had got low,the golden light took a deeper tone, and on the mountains andthe plain that stretched beneath them the masses of purpleshadow glowed as richly as the places that were still exposed.The scene had an extraordinary charm. The air was almost sol-emnly still, and the large expanse of the landscape, with itsgarden-like culture and nobleness of outline, its teeming valleyand delicately-fretted hills, its peculiarly human-lookingtouches of habitation, lay there in splendid harmony and clas-sic grace. "You seem so well pleased that I think you can betrusted to come back," Osmond said as he led his companion toone of the angles of the terrace.

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"I shall certainly come back," she returned, "in spite of whatyou say about its being bad to live in Italy. What was that yousaid about one's natural mission? I wonder if I should forsakemy natural mission if I were to settle in Florence."

"A woman's natural mission is to be where she's mostappreciated."

"The point's to find out where that is.""Very true—she often wastes a great deal of time in the en-

quiry. People ought to make it very plain to her.""Such a matter would have to be made very plain to me,"

smiled Isabel."I'm glad, at any rate, to hear you talk of settling. Madame

Merle had given me an idea that you were of a rather rovingdisposition. I thought she spoke of your having some plan ofgoing round the world."

"I'm rather ashamed of my plans; I make a new one everyday."

"I don't see why you should be ashamed; it's the greatest ofpleasures."

"It seems frivolous, I think," said Isabel. "One ought tochoose something very deliberately, and be faithful to that."

"By that rule then, I've not been frivolous.""Have you never made plans?""Yes, I made one years ago, and I'm acting on it to-day.""It must have been a very pleasant one," Isabel permitted

herself to observe."It was very simple. It was to be as quiet as possible.""As quiet?" the girl repeated."Not to worry—not to strive nor struggle. To resign myself.

To be content with little." He spoke these sentences slowly,with short pauses between, and his intelligent regard was fixedon his visitor's with the conscious air of a man who hasbrought himself to confess something.

"Do you call that simple?" she asked with mild irony."Yes, because it's negative.""Has your life been negative?""Call it affirmative if you like. Only it has affirmed my indif-

ference. Mind you, not my natural indifference—I HAD none.But my studied, my wilful renunciation."

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She scarcely understood him; it seemed a question whetherhe were joking or not. Why should a man who struck her ashaving a great fund of reserve suddenly bring himself to be soconfidential? This was his affair, however, and his confidenceswere interesting. "I don't see why you should have renounced,"she said in a moment.

"Because I could do nothing. I had no prospects, I was poor,and I was not a man of genius. I had no talents even; I took mymeasure early in life. I was simply the most fastidious younggentleman living. There were two or three people in the worldI envied—the Emperor of Russia, for instance, and the Sultanof Turkey! There were even moments when I envied the Popeof Rome— for the consideration he enjoys. I should have beendelighted to be considered to that extent; but since thatcouldn't be I didn't care for anything less, and I made up mymind not to go in for honours. The leanest gentleman can al-ways consider himself, and fortunately I was, though lean, agentleman. I could do nothing in Italy—I couldn't even be anItalian patriot. To do that I should have had to get out of thecountry; and I was too fond of it to leave it, to say nothing ofmy being too well satisfied with it, on the whole, as it then was,to wish it altered. So I've passed a great many years here onthat quiet plan I spoke of. I've not been at all unhappy. I don'tmean to say I've cared for nothing; but the things I've cared forhave been definite— limited. The events of my life have beenabsolutely unperceived by any one save myself; getting an oldsilver crucifix at a bargain (I've never bought anything dear, ofcourse), or discovering, as I once did, a sketch by Correggio ona panel daubed over by some inspired idiot."

This would have been rather a dry account of Mr. Osmond'scareer if Isabel had fully believed it; but her imagination sup-plied the human element which she was sure had not beenwanting. His life had been mingled with other lives more thanhe admitted; naturally she couldn't expect him to enter intothis. For the present she abstained from provoking further rev-elations; to intimate that he had not told her everything wouldbe more familiar and less considerate than she now desired tobe—would in fact be uproariously vulgar. He had certainly toldher quite enough. It was her present inclination, however, toexpress a measured sympathy for the success with which he

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had preserved his independence. "That's a very pleasant life,"she said, "to renounce everything but Correggio!"

"Oh, I've made in my way a good thing of it. Don't imagineI'm whining about it. It's one's own fault if one isn't happy."

This was large; she kept down to something smaller. "Haveyou lived here always?"

"No, not always. I lived a long time at Naples, and manyyears in Rome. But I've been here a good while. Perhaps I shallhave to change, however; to do something else. I've no longermyself to think of. My daughter's growing up and may verypossibly not care so much for the Correggios and crucifixes asI. I shall have to do what's best for Pansy."

"Yes, do that," said Isabel. "She's such a dear little girl.""Ah," cried Gilbert Osmond beautifully, "she's a little saint of

heaven! She is my great happiness!"

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Chapter 25While this sufficiently intimate colloquy (prolonged for sometime after we cease to follow it) went forward Madame Merleand her companion, breaking a silence of some duration, hadbegun to exchange remarks. They were sitting in an attitude ofunexpressed expectancy; an attitude especially marked on thepart of the Countess Gemini, who, being of a more nervoustemperament than her friend, practised with less success theart of disguising impatience. What these ladies were waitingfor would not have been apparent and was perhaps not verydefinite to their own minds. Madame Merle waited for Osmondto release their young friend from her tete-a-tete, and theCountess waited because Madame Merle did. The Countess,moreover, by waiting, found the time ripe for one of her prettyperversities. She might have desired for some minutes to placeit. Her brother wandered with Isabel to the end of the garden,to which point her eyes followed them.

"My dear," she then observed to her companion, "you'll ex-cuse me if I don't congratulate you!"

"Very willingly, for I don't in the least know why you should.""Haven't you a little plan that you think rather well of?" And

the Countess nodded at the sequestered couple.Madame Merle's eyes took the same direction; then she

looked serenely at her neighbour. "You know I never under-stand you very well," she smiled.

"No one can understand better than you when you wish. I seethat just now you DON'T wish."

"You say things to me that no one else does," said MadameMerle gravely, yet without bitterness.

"You mean things you don't like? Doesn't Osmond sometimessay such things?"

"What your brother says has a point."

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"Yes, a poisoned one sometimes. If you mean that I'm not soclever as he you mustn't think I shall suffer from your sense ofour difference. But it will be much better that you should un-derstand me."

"Why so?" asked Madame Merle. "To what will it conduce?""If I don't approve of your plan you ought to know it in order

to appreciate the danger of my interfering with it."Madame Merle looked as if she were ready to admit that

there might be something in this; but in a moment she saidquietly: "You think me more calculating than I am."

"It's not your calculating I think ill of; it's your calculatingwrong. You've done so in this case."

"You must have made extensive calculations yourself to dis-cover that."

"No, I've not had time. I've seen the girl but this once," saidthe Countess, "and the conviction has suddenly come to me. Ilike her very much."

"So do I," Madame Merle mentioned."You've a strange way of showing it.""Surely I've given her the advantage of making your

acquaintance.""That indeed," piped the Countess, "is perhaps the best thing

that could happen to her!"Madame Merle said nothing for some time. The Countess's

manner was odious, was really low; but it was an old story, andwith her eyes upon the violet slope of Monte Morello she gaveherself up to reflection. "My dear lady," she finally resumed, "Iadvise you not to agitate yourself. The matter you allude toconcerns three persons much stronger of purpose thanyourself."

"Three persons? You and Osmond of course. But is MissArcher also very strong of purpose?"

"Quite as much so as we.""Ah then," said the Countess radiantly, "if I convince her it's

her interest to resist you she'll do so successfully!""Resist us? Why do you express yourself so coarsely? She's

not exposed to compulsion or deception.""I'm not sure of that. You're capable of anything, you and Os-

mond. I don't mean Osmond by himself, and I don't mean you

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by yourself. But together you're dangerous—like some chemic-al combination."

"You had better leave us alone then," smiled Madame Merle."I don't mean to touch you—but I shall talk to that girl.""My poor Amy," Madame Merle murmured, "I don't see what

has got into your head.""I take an interest in her—that's what has got into my head. I

like her."Madame Merle hesitated a moment. "I don't think she likes

you."The Countess's bright little eyes expanded and her face was

set in a grimace. "Ah, you ARE dangerous—even by yourself!""If you want her to like you don't abuse your brother to her,"

said Madame Merle."I don't suppose you pretend she has fallen in love with him

in two interviews."Madame Merle looked a moment at Isabel and at the master

of the house. He was leaning against the parapet, facing her,his arms folded; and she at present was evidently not lost inthe mere impersonal view, persistently as she gazed at it. AsMadame Merle watched her she lowered her eyes; she waslistening, possibly with a certain embarrassment, while shepressed the point of her parasol into the path. Madame Merlerose from her chair. "Yes, I think so!" she pronounced.

The shabby footboy, summoned by Pansy—he might, tar-nished as to livery and quaint as to type, have issued fromsome stray sketch of old-time manners, been "put in" by thebrush of a Longhi or a Goya—had come out with a small tableand placed it on the grass, and then had gone back and fetchedthe tea-tray; after which he had again disappeared, to returnwith a couple of chairs. Pansy had watched these proceedingswith the deepest interest, standing with her small hands foldedtogether upon the front of her scanty frock; but she had notpresumed to offer assistance. When the tea-table had been ar-ranged, however, she gently approached her aunt.

"Do you think papa would object to my making the tea?"The Countess looked at her with a deliberately critical gaze

and without answering her question. "My poor niece," she said,"is that your best frock?"

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"Ah no," Pansy answered, "it's just a little toilette for com-mon occasions."

"Do you call it a common occasion when I come to seeyou?—to say nothing of Madame Merle and the pretty ladyyonder."

Pansy reflected a moment, turning gravely from one of thepersons mentioned to the other. Then her face broke into itsperfect smile. "I have a pretty dress, but even that one's verysimple. Why should I expose it beside your beautiful things?"

"Because it's the prettiest you have; for me you must alwayswear the prettiest. Please put it on the next time. It seems tome they don't dress you so well as they might."

The child sparingly stroked down her antiquated skirt. "It's agood little dress to make tea—don't you think? Don't you be-lieve papa would allow me?"

"Impossible for me to say, my child," said the Countess. "Forme, your father's ideas are unfathomable. Madame Merle un-derstands them better. Ask HER."

Madame Merle smiled with her usual grace. "It's a weightyquestion—let me think. It seems to me it would please yourfather to see a careful little daughter making his tea. It's theproper duty of the daughter of the house—when she grows up."

"So it seems to me, Madame Merle!" Pansy cried. "You shallsee how well I'll make it. A spoonful for each." And she beganto busy herself at the table.

"Two spoonfuls for me," said the Countess, who, with Ma-dame Merle, remained for some moments watching her."Listen to me, Pansy," the Countess resumed at last. "I shouldlike to know what you think of your visitor."

"Ah, she's not mine—she's papa's," Pansy objected."Miss Archer came to see you as well," said Madame Merle."I'm very happy to hear that. She has been very polite to me.""Do you like her then?" the Countess asked."She's charming—charming," Pansy repeated in her little

neat conversational tone. "She pleases me thoroughly.""And how do you think she pleases your father?""Ah really, Countess!" murmured Madame Merle dissuas-

ively. "Go and call them to tea," she went on to the child.

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"You'll see if they don't like it!" Pansy declared; and departedto summon the others, who had still lingered at the end of theterrace.

"If Miss Archer's to become her mother it's surely interestingto know if the child likes her," said the Countess.

"If your brother marries again it won't be for Pansy's sake,"Madame Merle replied. "She'll soon be sixteen, and after thatshe'll begin to need a husband rather than a stepmother."

"And will you provide the husband as well?""I shall certainly take an interest in her marrying fortunately.

I imagine you'll do the same.""Indeed I shan't!" cried the Countess. "Why should I, of all

women, set such a price on a husband?""You didn't marry fortunately; that's what I'm speaking of.

When I say a husband I mean a good one.""There are no good ones. Osmond won't be a good one."Madame Merle closed her eyes a moment. "You're irritated

just now; I don't know why," she presently said. "I don't thinkyou'll really object either to your brother's or to your niece'smarrying, when the time comes for them to do so; and as re-gards Pansy I'm confident that we shall some day have thepleasure of looking for a husband for her together. Your largeacquaintance will be a great help."

"Yes, I'm irritated," the Countess answered. "You often irrit-ate me. Your own coolness is fabulous. You're a strangewoman."

"It's much better that we should always act together," Ma-dame Merle went on.

"Do you mean that as a threat?" asked the Countess rising.Madame Merle shook her head as for quiet amusement. "No in-deed, you've not my coolness!"

Isabel and Mr. Osmond were now slowly coming towardthem and Isabel had taken Pansy by the hand. "Do you pretendto believe he'd make her happy?" the Countess demanded.

"If he should marry Miss Archer I suppose he'd behave like agentleman."

The Countess jerked herself into a succession of attitudes."Do you mean as most gentlemen behave? That would be muchto be thankful for! Of course Osmond's a gentleman; his ownsister needn't be reminded of that. But does he think he can

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marry any girl he happens to pick out? Osmond's a gentleman,of course; but I must say I've NEVER, no, no, never, seen anyone of Osmond's pretensions! What they're all founded on ismore than I can say. I'm his own sister; I might he supposed toknow. Who is he, if you please? What has he ever done? Ifthere had been anything particularly grand in his origin—if hewere made of some superior clay—I presume I should have gotsome inkling of it. If there had been any great honours orsplendours in the family I should certainly have made the mostof them: they would have been quite in my line. But there'snothing, nothing, nothing. One's parents were charming peopleof course; but so were yours, I've no doubt. Every one's acharming person nowadays. Even I'm a charming person; don'tlaugh, it has literally been said. As for Osmond, he has alwaysappeared to believe that he's descended from the gods."

"You may say what you please," said Madame Merle, whohad listened to this quick outbreak none the less attentively,we may believe, because her eye wandered away from thespeaker and her hands busied themselves with adjusting theknots of ribbon on her dress. "You Osmonds are a finerace—your blood must flow from some very pure source. Yourbrother, like an intelligent man, has had the conviction of it ifhe has not had the proofs. You're modest about it, but youyourself are extremely distinguished. What do you say aboutyour niece? The child's a little princess. Nevertheless," Ma-dame Merle added, "it won't be an easy matter for Osmond tomarry Miss Archer. Yet he can try."

"I hope she'll refuse him. It will take him down a little.""We mustn't forget that he is one of the cleverest of men.""I've heard you say that before, but I haven't yet discovered

what he has done.""What he has done? He has done nothing that has had to be

undone. And he has known how to wait.""To wait for Miss Archer's money? How much of it is there?""That's not what I mean," said Madame Merle. "Miss Archer

has seventy thousand pounds.""Well, it's a pity she's so charming," the Countess declared.

"To be sacrificed, any girl would do. She needn't be superior.""If she weren't superior your brother would never look at

her. He must have the best."

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"Yes," returned the Countess as they went forward a little tomeet the others, "he's very hard to satisfy. That makes metremble for her happiness!"

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Chapter 26Gilbert Osmond came to see Isabel again; that is he came toPalazzo Crescentini. He had other friends there as well, and toMrs. Touchett and Madame Merle he was always impartiallycivil; but the former of these ladies noted the fact that in thecourse of a fortnight he called five times, and compared it withanother fact that she found no difficulty in remembering. Twovisits a year had hitherto constituted his regular tribute to Mrs.Touchett's worth, and she had never observed him select forsuch visits those moments, of almost periodical recurrence,when Madame Merle was under her roof. It was not for Ma-dame Merle that he came; these two were old friends and henever put himself out for her. He was not fond of Ralph—Ralphhad told her so—and it was not supposable that Mr. Osmondhad suddenly taken a fancy to her son. Ralph was imperturb-able—Ralph had a kind of loose-fitting urbanity that wrappedhim about like an ill-made overcoat, but of which he never di-vested himself; he thought Mr. Osmond very good companyand was willing at any time to look at him in the light of hospit-ality. But he didn't flatter himself that the desire to repair apast injustice was the motive of their visitor's calls; he read thesituation more clearly. Isabel was the attraction, and in all con-science a sufficient one. Osmond was a critic, a student of theexquisite, and it was natural he should be curious of so rare anapparition. So when his mother observed to him that it wasplain what Mr. Osmond was thinking of, Ralph replied that hewas quite of her opinion. Mrs. Touchett had from far backfound a place on her scant list for this gentleman, though won-dering dimly by what art and what process—so negative and sowise as they were—he had everywhere effectively imposedhimself. As he had never been an importunate visitor he hadhad no chance to be offensive, and he was recommended to herby his appearance of being as well able to do without her as

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she was to do without him—a quality that always, oddlyenough, affected her as providing ground for a relation withher. It gave her no satisfaction, however, to think that he hadtaken it into his head to marry her niece. Such an alliance, onIsabel's part, would have an air of almost morbid perversity.Mrs. Touchett easily remembered that the girl had refused anEnglish peer; and that a young lady with whom Lord Warbur-ton had not successfully wrestled should content herself withan obscure American dilettante, a middle-aged widower withan uncanny child and an ambiguous income, this answered tonothing in Mrs. Touchett's conception of success. She took, itwill be observed, not the sentimental, but the political, view ofmatrimony—a view which has always had much to recommendit. "I trust she won't have the folly to listen to him," she said toher son; to which Ralph replied that Isabel's listening was onething and Isabel's answering quite another. He knew she hadlistened to several parties, as his father would have said, buthad made them listen in return; and he found much entertain-ment in the idea that in these few months of his knowing herhe should observe a fresh suitor at her gate. She had wanted tosee life, and fortune was serving her to her taste; a successionof fine gentlemen going down on their knees to her would doas well as anything else. Ralph looked forward to a fourth, afifth, a tenth besieger; he had no conviction she would stop at athird. She would keep the gate ajar and open a parley; shewould certainly not allow number three to come in. He ex-pressed this view, somewhat after this fashion, to his mother,who looked at him as if he had been dancing a jig. He had sucha fanciful, pictorial way of saying things that he might as welladdress her in the deaf-mute's alphabet.

"I don't think I know what you mean," she said; "you use toomany figures of speech; I could never understand allegories.The two words in the language I most respect are Yes and No.If Isabel wants to marry Mr. Osmond she'll do so in spite of allyour comparisons. Let her alone to find a fine one herself foranything she undertakes. I know very little about the youngman in America; I don't think she spends much of her time inthinking of him, and I suspect he has got tired of waiting forher. There's nothing in life to prevent her marrying Mr. Os-mond if she only looks at him in a certain way. That's all very

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well; no one approves more than I of one's pleasing one's self.But she takes her pleasure in such odd things; she's capable ofmarrying Mr. Osmond for the beauty of his opinions or for hisautograph of Michael Angelo. She wants to be disinterested: asif she were the only person who's in danger of not being so!Will HE be so disinterested when he has the spending of hermoney? That was her idea before your father's death, and ithas acquired new charms for her since. She ought to marrysome one of whose disinterestedness she shall herself be sure;and there would be no such proof of that as his having a for-tune of his own."

"My dear mother, I'm not afraid," Ralph answered. "She'smaking fools of us all. She'll please herself, of course; but she'lldo so by studying human nature at close quarters and yet re-taining her liberty. She has started on an exploring expedition,and I don't think she'll change her course, at the outset, at asignal from Gilbert Osmond. She may have slackened speed foran hour, but before we know it she'll be steaming away again.Excuse another metaphor."

Mrs. Touchett excused it perhaps, but was not so much reas-sured as to withhold from Madame Merle the expression of herfears. "You who know everything," she said, "you must knowthis: whether that curious creature's really making love to myniece."

"Gilbert Osmond?" Madame Merle widened her clear eyesand, with a full intelligence, "Heaven help us," she exclaimed,"that's an idea!"

"Hadn't it occurred to you?""You make me feel an idiot, but I confess it hadn't. I wonder,"

she added, "if it has occurred to Isabel.""Oh, I shall now ask her," said Mrs. Touchett.Madame Merle reflected. "Don't put it into her head. The

thing would be to ask Mr. Osmond.""I can't do that," said Mrs. Touchett. "I won't have him en-

quire of me—as he perfectly may with that air of his, givenIsabel's situation—what business it is of mine."

"I'll ask him myself," Madame Merle bravely declared."But what business—for HIM—is it of yours?""It's being none whatever is just why I can afford to speak.

It's so much less my business than any one's else that he can

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put me off with anything he chooses. But it will be by the wayhe does this that I shall know."

"Pray let me hear then," said Mrs. Touchett, "of the fruits ofyour penetration. If I can't speak to him, however, at least Ican speak to Isabel."

Her companion sounded at this the note of warning. "Don'tbe too quick with her. Don't inflame her imagination."

"I never did anything in life to any one's imagination. But I'malways sure of her doing something—well, not of MY kind."

"No, you wouldn't like this," Madame Merle observed withoutthe point of interrogation.

"Why in the world should I, pray? Mr. Osmond has nothingthe least solid to offer."

Again Madame Merle was silent while her thoughtful smiledrew up her mouth even more charmingly than usual towardthe left corner. "Let us distinguish. Gilbert Osmond's certainlynot the first comer. He's a man who in favourable conditionsmight very well make a great impression. He has made a greatimpression, to my knowledge, more than once."

"Don't tell me about his probably quite cold-blooded love-af-fairs; they're nothing to me!" Mrs. Touchett cried. "What yousay's precisely why I wish he would cease his visits. He hasnothing in the world that I know of but a dozen or two of earlymasters and a more or less pert little daughter."

"The early masters are now worth a good deal of money,"said Madame Merle, "and the daughter's a very young and veryinnocent and very harmless person."

"In other words she's an insipid little chit. Is that what youmean? Having no fortune she can't hope to marry as theymarry here; so that Isabel will have to furnish her either with amaintenance or with a dowry."

"Isabel probably wouldn't object to being kind to her. I thinkshe likes the poor child."

"Another reason then for Mr. Osmond's stopping at home!Otherwise, a week hence, we shall have my niece arriving atthe conviction that her mission in life's to prove that a step-mother may sacrifice herself—and that, to prove it, she mustfirst become one."

"She would make a charming stepmother," smiled MadameMerle; "but I quite agree with you that she had better not

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decide upon her mission too hastily. Changing the form ofone's mission's almost as difficult as changing the shape ofone's nose: there they are, each, in the middle of one's face andone's character—one has to begin too far back. But I'll investig-ate and report to you."

All this went on quite over Isabel's head; she had no suspi-cions that her relations with Mr. Osmond were being dis-cussed. Madame Merle had said nothing to put her on herguard; she alluded no more pointedly to him than to the othergentlemen of Florence, native and foreign, who now arrived inconsiderable numbers to pay their respects to Miss Archer'saunt. Isabel thought him interesting—she came back to that;she liked so to think of him. She had carried away an imagefrom her visit to his hill-top which her subsequent knowledgeof him did nothing to efface and which put on for her a particu-lar harmony with other supposed and divined things, historieswithin histories: the image of a quiet, clever, sensitive, distin-guished man, strolling on a moss-grown terrace above thesweet Val d'Arno and holding by the hand a little girl whosebell-like clearness gave a new grace to childhood. The picturehad no flourishes, but she liked its lowness of tone and the at-mosphere of summer twilight that pervaded it. It spoke of thekind of personal issue that touched her most nearly; of thechoice between objects, subjects, contacts—what might shecall them?—of a thin and those of a rich association; of alonely, studious life in a lovely land; of an old sorrow thatsometimes ached to-day; of a feeling of pride that was perhapsexaggerated, but that had an element of nobleness; of a carefor beauty and perfection so natural and so cultivated togetherthat the career appeared to stretch beneath it in the disposedvistas and with the ranges of steps and terraces and fountainsof a formal Italian garden—allowing only for arid placesfreshened by the natural dews of a quaint half-anxious, half-helpless fatherhood. At Palazzo Crescentini Mr. Osmond's man-ner remained the same; diffident at first—oh self-consciousbeyond doubt! and full of the effort (visible only to a sympath-etic eye) to overcome this disadvantage; an effort which usu-ally resulted in a great deal of easy, lively, very positive, ratheraggressive, always suggestive talk. Mr. Osmond's talk was notinjured by the indication of an eagerness to shine; Isabel found

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no difficulty in believing that a person was sincere who had somany of the signs of strong conviction—as for instance an ex-plicit and graceful appreciation of anything that might be saidon his own side of the question, said perhaps by Miss Archer inespecial. What continued to please this young woman was thatwhile he talked so for amusement he didn't talk, as she hadheard people, for "effect." He uttered his ideas as if, odd asthey often appeared, he were used to them and had lived withthem; old polished knobs and heads and handles, of precioussubstance, that could be fitted if necessary to new walking-sticks—not switches plucked in destitution from the commontree and then too elegantly waved about. One day he broughthis small daughter with him, and she rejoiced to renew ac-quaintance with the child, who, as she presented her foreheadto be kissed by every member of the circle, reminded hervividly of an ingenue in a French play. Isabel had never seen alittle person of this pattern; American girls were very differ-ent— different too were the maidens of England. Pansy was soformed and finished for her tiny place in the world, and yet inimagination, as one could see, so innocent and infantine. Shesat on the sofa by Isabel; she wore a small grenadine mantleand a pair of the useful gloves that Madame Merle had givenher— little grey gloves with a single button. She was like asheet of blank paper—the ideal jeune fille of foreign fiction.Isabel hoped that so fair and smooth a page would be coveredwith an edifying text.

The Countess Gemini also came to call upon her, but theCountess was quite another affair. She was by no means ablank sheet; she had been written over in a variety of hands,and Mrs. Touchett, who felt by no means honoured by her visit,pronounced that a number of unmistakeable blots were to beseen upon her surface. The Countess gave rise indeed to somediscussion between the mistress of the house and the visitorfrom Rome, in which Madame Merle (who was not such a foolas to irritate people by always agreeing with them) availed her-self felicitously enough of that large licence of dissent whichher hostess permitted as freely as she practised it. Mrs.Touchett had declared it a piece of audacity that this highlycompromised character should have presented herself at sucha time of day at the door of a house in which she was esteemed

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so little as she must long have known herself to be at PalazzoCrescentini. Isabel had been made acquainted with the estim-ate prevailing under that roof: it represented Mr. Osmond's sis-ter as a lady who had so mismanaged her improprieties thatthey had ceased to hang together at all— which was at theleast what one asked of such matters—and had become themere floating fragments of a wrecked renown, incommodingsocial circulation. She had been married by her mother—amore administrative person, with an appreciation of foreigntitles which the daughter, to do her justice, had probably bythis time thrown off—to an Italian nobleman who had perhapsgiven her some excuse for attempting to quench the conscious-ness of outrage. The Countess, however, had consoled herselfoutrageously, and the list of her excuses had now lost itself inthe labyrinth of her adventures. Mrs. Touchett had never con-sented to receive her, though the Countess had made overturesof old. Florence was not an austere city; but, as Mrs. Touchettsaid, she had to draw the line somewhere.

Madame Merle defended the luckless lady with a great dealof zeal and wit. She couldn't see why Mrs. Touchett shouldmake a scapegoat of a woman who had really done no harm,who had only done good in the wrong way. One must certainlydraw the line, but while one was about it one should draw itstraight: it was a very crooked chalk-mark that would excludethe Countess Gemini. In that case Mrs. Touchett had bettershut up her house; this perhaps would be the best course solong as she remained in Florence. One must be fair and notmake arbitrary differences: the Countess had doubtless beenimprudent, she had not been so clever as other women. Shewas a good creature, not clever at all; but since when had thatbeen a ground of exclusion from the best society? For ever solong now one had heard nothing about her, and there could beno better proof of her having renounced the error of her waysthan her desire to become a member of Mrs. Touchett's circle.Isabel could contribute nothing to this interesting dispute, noteven a patient attention; she contented herself with having giv-en a friendly welcome to the unfortunate lady, who, whateverher defects, had at least the merit of being Mr. Osmond's sis-ter. As she liked the brother Isabel thought it proper to try andlike the sister: in spite of the growing complexity of things she

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was still capable of these primitive sequences. She had not re-ceived the happiest impression of the Countess on meeting herat the villa, but was thankful for an opportunity to repair theaccident. Had not Mr. Osmond remarked that she was a re-spectable person? To have proceeded from Gilbert Osmondthis was a crude proposition, but Madame Merle bestowedupon it a certain improving polish. She told Isabel more aboutthe poor Countess than Mr. Osmond had done, and related thehistory of her marriage and its consequences. The Count was amember of an ancient Tuscan family, but of such small estatethat he had been glad to accept Amy Osmond, in spite of thequestionable beauty which had yet not hampered her career,with the modest dowry her mother was able to offer—a sumabout equivalent to that which had already formed herbrother's share of their patrimony. Count Gemini since then,however, had inherited money, and now they were well enoughoff, as Italians went, though Amy was horribly extravagant. TheCount was a low-lived brute; he had given his wife every pre-text. She had no children; she had lost three within a year oftheir birth. Her mother, who had bristled with pretensions toelegant learning and published descriptive poems and corres-ponded on Italian subjects with the English weekly journals,her mother had died three years after the Countess's marriage,the father, lost in the grey American dawn of the situation, butreputed originally rich and wild, having died much earlier. Onecould see this in Gilbert Osmond, Madame Merle held—seethat he had been brought up by a woman; though, to do himjustice, one would suppose it had been by a more sensible wo-man than the American Corinne, as Mrs. Osmond had liked tobe called. She had brought her children to Italy after herhusband's death, and Mrs. Touchett remembered her duringthe year that followed her arrival. She thought her a horriblesnob; but this was an irregularity of judgement on Mrs.Touchett's part, for she, like Mrs. Osmond, approved of politic-al marriages. The Countess was very good company and notreally the featherhead she seemed; all one had to do with herwas to observe the simple condition of not believing a word shesaid. Madame Merle had always made the best of her for herbrother's sake; he appreciated any kindness shown to Amy, be-cause (if it had to be confessed for him) he rather felt she let

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down their common name. Naturally he couldn't like her style,her shrillness, her egotism, her violations of taste and above allof truth: she acted badly on his nerves, she was not HIS sort ofwoman. What was his sort of woman? Oh, the very opposite ofthe Countess, a woman to whom the truth should be habituallysacred. Isabel was unable to estimate the number of times hervisitor had, in half an hour, profaned it: the Countess indeedhad given her an impression of rather silly sincerity. She hadtalked almost exclusively about herself; how much she shouldlike to know Miss Archer; how thankful she should be for a realfriend; how base the people in Florence were; how tired shewas of the place; how much she should like to live somewhereelse—in Paris, in London, in Washington; how impossible it wasto get anything nice to wear in Italy except a little old lace;how dear the world was growing everywhere; what a life ofsuffering and privation she had led. Madame Merle listenedwith interest to Isabel's account of this passage, but she hadnot needed it to feel exempt from anxiety. On the whole shewas not afraid of the Countess, and she could afford to do whatwas altogether best—not to appear so.

Isabel had meanwhile another visitor, whom it was not, evenbehind her back, so easy a matter to patronise. HenriettaStackpole, who had left Paris after Mrs. Touchett's departurefor San Remo and had worked her way down, as she said,through the cities of North Italy, reached the banks of the Arnoabout the middle of May. Madame Merle surveyed her with asingle glance, took her in from head to foot, and after a pang ofdespair determined to endure her. She determined indeed todelight in her. She mightn't be inhaled as a rose, but she mightbe grasped as a nettle. Madame Merle genially squeezed herinto insignificance, and Isabel felt that in foreseeing this liber-ality she had done justice to her friend's intelligence.Henrietta's arrival had been announced by Mr. Bantling, who,coming down from Nice while she was at Venice, and expect-ing to find her in Florence, which she had not yet reached,called at Palazzo Crescentini to express his disappointment.Henrietta's own advent occurred two days later and producedin Mr. Bantling an emotion amply accounted for by the factthat he had not seen her since the termination of the episodeat Versailles. The humorous view of his situation was generally

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taken, but it was uttered only by Ralph Touchett, who, in theprivacy of his own apartment, when Bantling smoked a cigarthere, indulged in goodness knew what strong comedy on thesubject of the all-judging one and her British backer. This gen-tleman took the joke in perfectly good part and candidly con-fessed that he regarded the affair as a positive intellectual ad-venture. He liked Miss Stackpole extremely; he thought shehad a wonderful head on her shoulders, and found great com-fort in the society of a woman who was not perpetually think-ing about what would be said and how what she did, how whatthey did—and they had done things!—would look. Miss Stack-pole never cared how anything looked, and, if she didn't care,pray why should he? But his curiosity had been roused; hewanted awfully to see if she ever WOULD care. He was pre-pared to go as far as she—he didn't see why he should breakdown first.

Henrietta showed no signs of breaking down. Her prospectshad brightened on her leaving England, and she was now inthe full enjoyment of her copious resources. She had indeedbeen obliged to sacrifice her hopes with regard to the innerlife; the social question, on the Continent, bristled with diffi-culties even more numerous than those she had encountered inEngland. But on the Continent there was the outer life, whichwas palpable and visible at every turn, and more easily con-vertible to literary uses than the customs of those opaque is-landers. Out of doors in foreign lands, as she ingeniously re-marked, one seemed to see the right side of the tapestry; out ofdoors in England one seemed to see the wrong side, whichgave one no notion of the figure. The admission costs her his-torian a pang, but Henrietta, despairing of more occult things,was now paying much attention to the outer life. She had beenstudying it for two months at Venice, from which city she sentto the Interviewer a conscientious account of the gondolas, thePiazza, the Bridge of Sighs, the pigeons and the young boat-man who chanted Tasso. The Interviewer was perhaps disap-pointed, but Henrietta was at least seeing Europe. Her presentpurpose was to get down to Rome before the malaria shouldcome on—she apparently supposed that it began on a fixedday; and with this design she was to spend at present but fewdays in Florence. Mr. Bantling was to go with her to Rome, and

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she pointed out to Isabel that as he had been there before, ashe was a military man and as he had had a classical educa-tion—he had been bred at Eton, where they study nothing butLatin and Whyte-Melville, said Miss Stackpole—he would be amost useful companion in the city of the Caesars. At this junc-ture Ralph had the happy idea of proposing to Isabel that shealso, under his own escort, should make a pilgrimage to Rome.She expected to pass a portion of the next winter there—thatwas very well; but meantime there was no harm in surveyingthe field. There were ten days left of the beautiful month ofMay—the most precious month of all to the true Rome-lover.Isabel would become a Rome-lover; that was a foregone con-clusion. She was provided with a trusty companion of her ownsex, whose society, thanks to the fact of other calls on thislady's attention, would probably not be oppressive. MadameMerle would remain with Mrs. Touchett; she had left Rome forthe summer and wouldn't care to return. She professed herselfdelighted to be left at peace in Florence; she had locked up herapartment and sent her cook home to Palestrina. She urgedIsabel, however, to assent to Ralph's proposal, and assured herthat a good introduction to Rome was not a thing to be des-pised. Isabel in truth needed no urging, and the party of fourarranged its little journey. Mrs. Touchett, on this occasion, hadresigned herself to the absence of a duenna; we have seen thatshe now inclined to the belief that her niece should standalone. One of Isabel's preparations consisted of her seeing Gil-bert Osmond before she started and mentioning her intentionto him.

"I should like to be in Rome with you," he commented. "Ishould like to see you on that wonderful ground."

She scarcely faltered. "You might come then.""But you'll have a lot of people with you.""Ah," Isabel admitted, "of course I shall not be alone."For a moment he said nothing more. "You'll like it," he went

on at last. "They've spoiled it, but you'll rave about it.""Ought I to dislike it because, poor old dear—the Niobe of

Nations, you know—it has been spoiled?" she asked."No, I think not. It has been spoiled so often," he smiled. "If I

were to go, what should I do with my little girl?""Can't you leave her at the villa?"

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"I don't know that I like that—though there's a very good oldwoman who looks after her. I can't afford a governess."

"Bring her with you then," said Isabel promptly.Mr. Osmond looked grave. "She has been in Rome all winter,

at her convent; and she's too young to make journeys ofpleasure."

"You don't like bringing her forward?" Isabel enquired."No, I think young girls should be kept out of the world.""I was brought up on a different system.""You? Oh, with you it succeeded, because you—you were

exceptional.""I don't see why," said Isabel, who, however, was not sure

there was not some truth in the speech.Mr. Osmond didn't explain; he simply went on: "If I thought it

would make her resemble you to join a social group in Rome I'dtake her there to-morrow."

"Don't make her resemble me," said Isabel. "Keep her likeherself."

"I might send her to my sister," Mr. Osmond observed. Hehad almost the air of asking advice; he seemed to like to talkover his domestic matters with Miss Archer.

"Yes," she concurred; "I think that wouldn't do much towardsmaking her resemble me!"

After she had left Florence Gilbert Osmond met MadameMerle at the Countess Gemini's. There were other peoplepresent; the Countess's drawing-room was usually well filled,and the talk had been general, but after a while Osmond lefthis place and came and sat on an ottoman half-behind, half-be-side Madame Merle's chair. "She wants me to go to Rome withher," he remarked in a low voice.

"To go with her?""To be there while she's there. She proposed it."I suppose you mean that you proposed it and she assented.""Of course I gave her a chance. But she's encouraging—she's

very encouraging.""I rejoice to hear it—but don't cry victory too soon. Of course

you'll go to Rome.""Ah," said Osmond, "it makes one work, this idea of yours!""Don't pretend you don't enjoy it—you're very ungrateful.

You've not been so well occupied these many years."

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"The way you take it's beautiful," said Osmond. "I ought to begrateful for that."

"Not too much so, however," Madame Merle answered. Shetalked with her usual smile, leaning back in her chair and look-ing round the room. "You've made a very good impression, andI've seen for myself that you've received one. You've not cometo Mrs. Touchett's seven times to oblige me."

"The girl's not disagreeable," Osmond quietly conceded.Madame Merle dropped her eye on him a moment, during

which her lips closed with a certain firmness. "Is that all youcan find to say about that fine creature?"

"All? Isn't it enough? Of how many people have you heard mesay more?"

She made no answer to this, but still presented her talkativegrace to the room. "You're unfathomable," she murmured atlast. "I'm frightened at the abyss into which I shall have casther."

He took it almost gaily. "You can't draw back—you've gonetoo far."

"Very good; but you must do the rest yourself.""I shall do it," said Gilbert Osmond.Madame Merle remained silent and he changed his place

again; but when she rose to go he also took leave. Mrs.Touchett's victoria was awaiting her guest in the court, andafter he had helped his friend into it he stood there detainingher. "You're very indiscreet," she said rather wearily; "youshouldn't have moved when I did."

He had taken off his hat; he passed his hand over his fore-head. "I always forget; I'm out of the habit."

"You're quite unfathomable," she repeated, glancing up atthe windows of the house, a modern structure in the new partof the town.

He paid no heed to this remark, but spoke in his own sense."She's really very charming. I've scarcely known any one moregraceful."

"It does me good to hear you say that. The better you like herthe better for me."

"I like her very much. She's all you described her, and intothe bargain capable, I feel, of great devotion. She has only onefault."

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"What's that?""Too many ideas.""I warned you she was clever.""Fortunately they're very bad ones," said Osmond."Why is that fortunate?""Dame, if they must be sacrificed!"Madame Merle leaned back, looking straight before her; then

she spoke to the coachman. But her friend again detained her."If I go to Rome what shall I do with Pansy?"

"I'll go and see her," said Madame Merle.

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Chapter 27I may not attempt to report in its fulness our young woman'sresponse to the deep appeal of Rome, to analyse her feelings asshe trod the pavement of the Forum or to number her pulsa-tions as she crossed the threshold of Saint Peter's. It is enoughto say that her impression was such as might have been expec-ted of a person of her freshness and her eagerness. She had al-ways been fond of history, and here was history in the stonesof the street and the atoms of the sunshine. She had an imagin-ation that kindled at the mention of great deeds, and wherevershe turned some great deed had been acted. These thingsstrongly moved her, but moved her all inwardly. It seemed toher companions that she talked less than usual, and RalphTouchett, when he appeared to be looking listlessly and awk-wardly over her head, was really dropping on her an intensityof observation. By her own measure she was very happy; shewould even have been willing to take these hours for the happi-est she was ever to know. The sense of the terrible human pastwas heavy to her, but that of something altogether contempor-ary would suddenly give it wings that it could wave in the blue.Her consciousness was so mixed that she scarcely knew wherethe different parts of it would lead her, and she went about in arepressed ecstasy of contemplation, seeing often in the thingsshe looked at a great deal more than was there, and yet notseeing many of the items enumerated in her Murray. Rome, asRalph said, confessed to the psychological moment. The herdof reechoing tourists had departed and most of the solemnplaces had relapsed into solemnity. The sky was a blaze ofblue, and the plash of the fountains in their mossy niches hadlost its chill and doubled its music. On the corners of the warm,bright streets one stumbled on bundles of flowers. Our friendshad gone one afternoon—it was the third of their stay—to lookat the latest excavations in the Forum, these labours having

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been for some time previous largely extended. They had des-cended from the modern street to the level of the Sacred Way,along which they wandered with a reverence of step which wasnot the same on the part of each. Henrietta Stackpole wasstruck with the fact that ancient Rome had been paved a gooddeal like New York, and even found an analogy between thedeep chariot-ruts traceable in the antique street and the over-jangled iron grooves which express the intensity of Americanlife. The sun had begun to sink, the air was a golden haze, andthe long shadows of broken column and vague pedestal leanedacross the field of ruin. Henrietta wandered away with Mr.Bantling, whom it was apparently delightful to her to hearspeak of Julius Caesar as a "cheeky old boy," and Ralph ad-dressed such elucidations as he was prepared to offer to the at-tentive ear of our heroine. One of the humble archeologistswho hover about the place had put himself at the disposal ofthe two, and repeated his lesson with a fluency which the de-cline of the season had done nothing to impair. A process ofdigging was on view in a remote corner of the Forum, and hepresently remarked that if it should please the signori to goand watch it a little they might see something of interest. Theproposal commended itself more to Ralph than to Isabel, wearywith much wandering; so that she admonished her companionto satisfy his curiosity while she patiently awaited his return.The hour and the place were much to her taste—she should en-joy being briefly alone. Ralph accordingly went off with thecicerone while Isabel sat down on a prostrate column near thefoundations of the Capitol. She wanted a short solitude, butshe was not long to enjoy it. Keen as was her interest in therugged relics of the Roman past that lay scattered about herand in which the corrosion of centuries had still left so much ofindividual life, her thoughts, after resting a while on thesethings, had wandered, by a concatenation of stages it might re-quire some subtlety to trace, to regions and objects chargedwith a more active appeal. From the Roman past to IsabelArcher's future was a long stride, but her imagination hadtaken it in a single flight and now hovered in slow circles overthe nearer and richer field. She was so absorbed in herthoughts, as she bent her eyes upon a row of cracked but notdislocated slabs covering the ground at her feet, that she had

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not heard the sound of approaching footsteps before a shadowwas thrown across the line of her vision. She looked up andsaw a gentleman—a gentleman who was not Ralph come backto say that the excavations were a bore. This personage wasstartled as she was startled; he stood there baring his head toher perceptibly pale surprise.

"Lord Warburton!" Isabel exclaimed as she rose."I had no idea it was you. I turned that corner and came upon

you."She looked about her to explain. "I'm alone, but my compan-

ions have just left me. My cousin's gone to look at the workover there."

"Ah yes; I see." And Lord Warburton's eyes wanderedvaguely in the direction she had indicated. He stood firmly be-fore her now; he had recovered his balance and seemed towish to show it, though very kindly. "Don't let me disturb you,"he went on, looking at her dejected pillar. "I'm afraid you'retired."

"Yes, I'm rather tired." She hesitated a moment, but sat downagain. "Don't let me interrupt you," she added.

"Oh dear, I'm quite alone, I've nothing on earth to do. I hadno idea you were in Rome. I've just come from the East. I'monly passing through."

"You've been making a long journey," said Isabel, who hadlearned from Ralph that Lord Warburton was absent fromEngland.

"Yes, I came abroad for six months—soon after I saw youlast. I've been in Turkey and Asia Minor; I came the other dayfrom Athens." He managed not to be awkward, but he wasn'teasy, and after a longer look at the girl he came down tonature. "Do you wish me to leave you, or will you let me stay alittle?"

She took it all humanely. "I don't wish you to leave me, LordWarburton; I'm very glad to see you."

"Thank you for saying that. May I sit down?"The fluted shaft on which she had taken her seat would have

afforded a resting-place to several persons, and there wasplenty of room even for a highly-developed Englishman. Thisfine specimen of that great class seated himself near our younglady, and in the course of five minutes he had asked her

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several questions, taken rather at random and to which, as heput some of them twice over, he apparently somewhat missedcatching the answer; had given her too some information abouthimself which was not wasted upon her calmer feminine sense.He repeated more than once that he had not expected to meether, and it was evident that the encounter touched him in away that would have made preparation advisable. He beganabruptly to pass from the impunity of things to their solemnity,and from their being delightful to their being impossible. Hewas splendidly sunburnt; even his multitudinous beard hadbeen burnished by the fire of Asia. He was dressed in theloose-fitting, heterogeneous garments in which the Englishtraveller in foreign lands is wont to consult his comfort and af-firm his nationality; and with his pleasant steady eyes, hisbronzed complexion, fresh beneath its seasoning, his manly fig-ure, his minimising manner and his general air of being a gen-tleman and an explorer, he was such a representative of theBritish race as need not in any clime have been disavowed bythose who have a kindness for it. Isabel noted these things andwas glad she had always liked him. He had kept, evidently inspite of shocks, every one of his merits—properties these par-taking of the essence of great decent houses, as one might putit; resembling their innermost fixtures and ornaments, not sub-ject to vulgar shifting and removable only by some wholebreak-up. They talked of the matters naturally in order; heruncle's death, Ralph's state of health, the way she had passedher winter, her visit to Rome, her return to Florence, her plansfor the summer, the hotel she was staying at; and then of LordWarburton's own adventures, movements, intentions, impres-sions and present domicile. At last there was a silence, and itsaid so much more than either had said that it scarce neededhis final words. "I've written to you several times."

"Written to me? I've never had your letters.""I never sent them. I burned them up.""Ah," laughed Isabel, "it was better that you should do that

than I!""I thought you wouldn't care for them," he went on with a

simplicity that touched her. "It seemed to me that after all Ihad no right to trouble you with letters."

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"I should have been very glad to have news of you. You knowhow I hoped that—that—" But she stopped; there would besuch a flatness in the utterance of her thought.

"I know what you're going to say. You hoped we should al-ways remain good friends." This formula, as Lord Warburtonuttered it, was certainly flat enough; but then he was inter-ested in making it appear so.

She found herself reduced simply to "Please don't talk of allthat"; a speech which hardly struck her as improvement on theother.

"It's a small consolation to allow me!" her companion ex-claimed with force.

"I can't pretend to console you," said the girl, who, all still asshe sat there, threw herself back with a sort of inward triumphon the answer that had satisfied him so little six months before.He was pleasant, he was powerful, he was gallant; there wasno better man than he. But her answer remained.

"It's very well you don't try to console me; it wouldn't be inyour power," she heard him say through the medium of herstrange elation.

"I hoped we should meet again, because I had no fear youwould attempt to make me feel I had wronged you. But whenyou do that— the pain's greater than the pleasure." And shegot up with a small conscious majesty, looking for hercompanions.

"I don't want to make you feel that; of course I can't say that.I only just want you to know one or two things—in fairness tomyself, as it were. I won't return to the subject again. I feltvery strongly what I expressed to you last year; I couldn't thinkof anything else. I tried to forget—energetically, systematically.I tried to take an interest in somebody else. I tell you this be-cause I want you to know I did my duty. I didn't succeed. It wasfor the same purpose I went abroad—as far away as possible.They say travelling distracts the mind, but it didn't distractmine. I've thought of you perpetually, ever since I last saw you.I'm exactly the same. I love you just as much, and everything Isaid to you then is just as true. This instant at which I speak toyou shows me again exactly how, to my great misfortune, youjust insuperably charm me. There—I can't say less. I don'tmean, however, to insist; it's only for a moment. I may add that

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when I came upon you a few minutes since, without the smal-lest idea of seeing you, I was, upon my honour, in the very actof wishing I knew where you were." He had recovered his self-control, and while he spoke it became complete. He might havebeen addressing a small committee—making all quietly andclearly a statement of importance; aided by an occasional lookat a paper of notes concealed in his hat, which he had notagain put on. And the committee, assuredly, would have feltthe point proved.

"I've often thought of you, Lord Warburton," Isabelanswered. "You may be sure I shall always do that." And sheadded in a tone of which she tried to keep up the kindness andkeep down the meaning: "There's no harm in that on eitherside."

They walked along together, and she was prompt to askabout his sisters and request him to let them know she haddone so. He made for the moment no further reference to theirgreat question, but dipped again into shallower and safer wa-ters. But he wished to know when she was to leave Rome, andon her mentioning the limit of her stay declared he was glad itwas still so distant.

"Why do you say that if you yourself are only passingthrough?" she enquired with some anxiety.

"Ah, when I said I was passing through I didn't mean thatone would treat Rome as if it were Clapham Junction. To passthrough Rome is to stop a week or two."

"Say frankly that you mean to stay as long as I do!"His flushed smile, for a little, seemed to sound her. "You

won't like that. You're afraid you'll see too much of me.""It doesn't matter what I like. I certainly can't expect you to

leave this delightful place on my account. But I confess I'mafraid of you."

"Afraid I'll begin again? I promise to be very careful."They had gradually stopped and they stood a moment face to

face. "Poor Lord Warburton!" she said with a compassion inten-ded to be good for both of them.

"Poor Lord Warburton indeed! But I'll be careful.""You may be unhappy, but you shall not make ME so. That I

can't allow."

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"If I believed I could make you unhappy I think I should tryit." At this she walked in advance and he also proceeded. "I'llnever say a word to displease you."

"Very good. If you do, our friendship's at an end.""Perhaps some day—after a while—you'll give me leave.""Give you leave to make me unhappy?"He hesitated. "To tell you again—" But he checked himself.

"I'll keep it down. I'll keep it down always."Ralph Touchett had been joined in his visit to the excavation

by Miss Stackpole and her attendant, and these three nowemerged from among the mounds of earth and stone collectedround the aperture and came into sight of Isabel and her com-panion. Poor Ralph hailed his friend with joy qualified by won-der, and Henrietta exclaimed in a high voice "Gracious, there'sthat lord!" Ralph and his English neighbour greeted with theausterity with which, after long separations, English neigh-bours greet, and Miss Stackpole rested her large intellectualgaze upon the sunburnt traveller. But she soon established herrelation to the crisis. "I don't suppose you remember me, sir."

"Indeed I do remember you," said Lord Warburton. "I askedyou to come and see me, and you never came."

"I don't go everywhere I'm asked," Miss Stackpole answeredcoldly.

"Ah well, I won't ask you again," laughed the master ofLockleigh.

"If you do I'll go; so be sure!"Lord Warburton, for all his hilarity, seemed sure enough. Mr.

Bantling had stood by without claiming a recognition, but henow took occasion to nod to his lordship, who answered himwith a friendly "Oh, you here, Bantling?" and a hand-shake.

"Well," said Henrietta, "I didn't know you knew him!""I guess you don't know every one I know," Mr. Bantling re-

joined facetiously."I thought that when an Englishman knew a lord he always

told you.""Ah, I'm afraid Bantling was ashamed of me," Lord Warbur-

ton laughed again. Isabel took pleasure in that note; she gave asmall sigh of relief as they kept their course homeward.

The next day was Sunday; she spent her morning over twolong letters—one to her sister Lily, the other to Madame Merle;

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but in neither of these epistles did she mention the fact that arejected suitor had threatened her with another appeal. Of aSunday afternoon all good Romans (and the best Romans areoften the northern barbarians) follow the custom of going tovespers at Saint Peter's; and it had been agreed among ourfriends that they would drive together to the great church.After lunch, an hour before the carriage came, Lord Warburtonpresented himself at the Hotel de Paris and paid a visit to thetwo ladies, Ralph Touchett and Mr. Bantling having gone outtogether. The visitor seemed to have wished to give Isabel aproof of his intention to keep the promise made her the even-ing before; he was both discreet and frank—not even dumblyimportunate or remotely intense. He thus left her to judgewhat a mere good friend he could be. He talked about histravels, about Persia, about Turkey, and when Miss Stackpoleasked him whether it would "pay" for her to visit those coun-tries assured her they offered a great field to female enter-prise. Isabel did him justice, but she wondered what his pur-pose was and what he expected to gain even by proving the su-perior strain of his sincerity. If he expected to melt her byshowing what a good fellow he was, he might spare himself thetrouble. She knew the superior strain of everything about him,and nothing he could now do was required to light the view.Moreover his being in Rome at all affected her as a complica-tion of the wrong sort—she liked so complications of the right.Nevertheless, when, on bringing his call to a close, he said hetoo should be at Saint Peter's and should look out for her andher friends, she was obliged to reply that he must follow hisconvenience.

In the church, as she strolled over its tesselated acres, hewas the first person she encountered. She had not been one ofthe superior tourists who are "disappointed" in Saint Peter'sand find it smaller than its fame; the first time she passed be-neath the huge leathern curtain that strains and bangs at theentrance, the first time she found herself beneath the far-arch-ing dome and saw the light drizzle down through the airthickened with incense and with the reflections of marble andgilt, of mosaic and bronze, her conception of greatness roseand dizzily rose. After this it never lacked space to soar. Shegazed and wondered like a child or a peasant, she paid her

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silent tribute to the seated sublime. Lord Warburton walkedbeside her and talked of Saint Sophia of Constantinople; shefeared for instance that he would end by calling attention to hisexemplary conduct. The service had not yet begun, but at SaintPeter's there is much to observe, and as there is something al-most profane in the vastness of the place, which seems meantas much for physical as for spiritual exercise, the different fig-ures and groups, the mingled worshippers and spectators, mayfollow their various intentions without conflict or scandal. Inthat splendid immensity individual indiscretion carries but ashort distance. Isabel and her companions, however, wereguilty of none; for though Henrietta was obliged in candour todeclare that Michael Angelo's dome suffered by comparisonwith that of the Capitol at Washington, she addressed herprotest chiefly to Mr. Bantling's ear and reserved it in its moreaccentuated form for the columns of the Interviewer. Isabelmade the circuit of the church with his lordship, and as theydrew near the choir on the left of the entrance the voices of thePope's singers were borne to them over the heads of the largenumber of persons clustered outside the doors. They paused awhile on the skirts of this crowd, composed in equal measureof Roman cockneys and inquisitive strangers, and while theystood there the sacred concert went forward. Ralph, with Hen-rietta and Mr. Bantling, was apparently within, where Isabel,looking beyond the dense group in front of her, saw the after-noon light, silvered by clouds of incense that seemed to minglewith the splendid chant, slope through the embossed recessesof high windows. After a while the singing stopped and thenLord Warburton seemed disposed to move off with her. Isabelcould only accompany him; whereupon she found herself con-fronted with Gilbert Osmond, who appeared to have beenstanding at a short distance behind her. He now approachedwith all the forms —he appeared to have multiplied them onthis occasion to suit the place.

"So you decided to come?" she said as she put out her hand."Yes, I came last night and called this afternoon at your

hotel. They told me you had come here, and I looked about foryou."

"The others are inside," she decided to say."I didn't come for the others," he promptly returned.

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She looked away; Lord Warburton was watching them; per-haps he had heard this. Suddenly she remembered it to be justwhat he had said to her the morning he came to Gardencourtto ask her to marry him. Mr. Osmond's words had brought thecolour to her cheek, and this reminiscence had not the effect ofdispelling it. She repaired any betrayal by mentioning to eachcompanion the name of the other, and fortunately at this mo-ment Mr. Bantling emerged from the choir, cleaving the crowdwith British valour and followed by Miss Stackpole and RalphTouchett. I say fortunately, but this is perhaps a superficialview of the matter; since on perceiving the gentleman fromFlorence Ralph Touchett appeared to take the case as not com-mitting him to joy. He didn't hang back, however, from civility,and presently observed to Isabel, with due benevolence, thatshe would soon have all her friends about her. Miss Stackpolehad met Mr. Osmond in Florence, but she had already foundoccasion to say to Isabel that she liked him no better than herother admirers—than Mr. Touchett and Lord Warburton, andeven than little Mr. Rosier in Paris. "I don't know what it's inyou," she had been pleased to remark, "but for a nice girl youdo attract the most unnatural people. Mr. Goodwood's the onlyone I've any respect for, and he's just the one you don'tappreciate."

"What's your opinion of Saint Peter's?" Mr. Osmond wasmeanwhile enquiring of our young lady.

"It's very large and very bright," she contented herself withreplying.

"It's too large; it makes one feel like an atom.""Isn't that the right way to feel in the greatest of human

temples?" she asked with rather a liking for her phrase."I suppose it's the right way to feel everywhere, when one IS

nobody. But I like it in a church as little as anywhere else.""You ought indeed to be a Pope!" Isabel exclaimed, remem-

bering something he had referred to in Florence."Ah, I should have enjoyed that!" said Gilbert Osmond.Lord Warburton meanwhile had joined Ralph Touchett, and

the two strolled away together. "Who's the fellow speaking toMiss Archer?" his lordship demanded.

"His name's Gilbert Osmond—he lives in Florence," Ralphsaid.

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"What is he besides?""Nothing at all. Oh yes, he's an American; but one forgets

that— he's so little of one.""Has he known Miss Archer long?""Three or four weeks.""Does she like him?""She's trying to find out.""And will she?""Find out—?" Ralph asked."Will she like him?""Do you mean will she accept him?""Yes," said Lord Warburton after an instant; "I suppose that's

what I horribly mean.""Perhaps not if one does nothing to prevent it," Ralph

replied.His lordship stared a moment, but apprehended. "Then we

must be perfectly quiet?""As quiet as the grave. And only on the chance!" Ralph

added."The chance she may?""The chance she may not?"Lord Warburton took this at first in silence, but he spoke

again. "Is he awfully clever?""Awfully," said Ralph.His companion thought. "And what else?""What more do you want?" Ralph groaned."Do you mean what more does SHE?"Ralph took him by the arm to turn him: they had to rejoin the

others. "She wants nothing that WE can give her.""Ah well, if she won't have You—!" said his lordship hand-

somely as they went.

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Chapter 28On the morrow, in the evening, Lord Warburton went again tosee his friends at their hotel, and at this establishment helearned that they had gone to the opera. He drove to the operawith the idea of paying them a visit in their box after the easyItalian fashion; and when he had obtained his admittance—itwas one of the secondary theatres—looked about the large,bare, ill-lighted house. An act had just terminated and he wasat liberty to pursue his quest. After scanning two or three tiersof boxes he perceived in one of the largest of these receptaclesa lady whom he easily recognised. Miss Archer was seated fa-cing the stage and partly screened by the curtain of the box;and beside her, leaning back in his chair, was Mr. Gilbert Os-mond. They appeared to have the place to themselves, andWarburton supposed their companions had taken advantage ofthe recess to enjoy the relative coolness of the lobby. He stooda while with his eyes on the interesting pair; he asked himselfif he should go up and interrupt the harmony. At last he judgedthat Isabel had seen him, and this accident determined him.There should be no marked holding off. He took his way to theupper regions and on the staircase met Ralph Touchett slowlydescending, his hat at the inclination of ennui and his handswhere they usually were.

"I saw you below a moment since and was going down to you.I feel lonely and want company," was Ralph's greeting.

"You've some that's very good which you've yet deserted.""Do you mean my cousin? Oh, she has a visitor and doesn't

want me. Then Miss Stackpole and Bantling have gone out to acafe to eat an ice—Miss Stackpole delights in an ice. I didn'tthink they wanted me either. The opera's very bad; the womenlook like laundresses and sing like peacocks. I feel very low."

"You had better go home," Lord Warburton said withoutaffectation.

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"And leave my young lady in this sad place? Ah no, I mustwatch over her."

"She seems to have plenty of friends.""Yes, that's why I must watch," said Ralph with the same

large mock-melancholy."If she doesn't want you it's probable she doesn't want me.""No, you're different. Go to the box and stay there while I

walk about."Lord Warburton went to the box, where Isabel's welcome

was as to a friend so honourably old that he vaguely asked him-self what queer temporal province she was annexing. He ex-changed greetings with Mr. Osmond, to whom he had been in-troduced the day before and who, after he came in, sat blandlyapart and silent, as if repudiating competence in the subjectsof allusion now probable. It struck her second visitor that MissArcher had, in operatic conditions, a radiance, even a slight ex-altation; as she was, however, at all times a keenly-glancing,quickly-moving, completely animated young woman, he mayhave been mistaken on this point. Her talk with him moreoverpointed to presence of mind; it expressed a kindness so ingeni-ous and deliberate as to indicate that she was in undisturbedpossession of her faculties. Poor Lord Warburton had momentsof bewilderment. She had discouraged him, formally, as muchas a woman could; what business had she then with such artsand such felicities, above all with such tones of repara-tion—preparation? Her voice had tricks of sweetness, but whyplay them on HIM? The others came back; the bare, familiar,trivial opera began again. The box was large, and there wasroom for him to remain if he would sit a little behind and in thedark. He did so for half an hour, while Mr. Osmond remainedin front, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, just behindIsabel. Lord Warburton heard nothing, and from his gloomycorner saw nothing but the clear profile of this young ladydefined against the dim illumination of the house. When therewas another interval no one moved. Mr. Osmond talked to Isa-bel, and Lord Warburton kept his corner. He did so but for ashort time, however; after which he got up and bade good-night to the ladies. Isabel said nothing to detain him, but itdidn't prevent his being puzzled again. Why should she markso one of his values—quite the wrong one—when she would

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have nothing to do with another, which was quite the right? Hewas angry with himself for being puzzled, and then angry forbeing angry. Verdi's music did little to comfort him, and he leftthe theatre and walked homeward, without knowing his way,through the tortuous, tragic streets of Rome, where heaviersorrows than his had been carried under the stars.

"What's the character of that gentleman?" Osmond asked ofIsabel after he had retired.

"Irreproachable—don't you see it?""He owns about half England; that's his character," Henrietta

remarked. "That's what they call a free country!""Ah, he's a great proprietor? Happy man!" said Gilbert

Osmond."Do you call that happiness—the ownership of wretched hu-

man beings?" cried Miss Stackpole. "He owns his tenants andhas thousands of them. It's pleasant to own something, but in-animate objects are enough for me. I don't insist on flesh andblood and minds and consciences."

"It seems to me you own a human being or two," Mr. Bant-ling suggested jocosely. "I wonder if Warburton orders his ten-ants about as you do me."

"Lord Warburton's a great radical," Isabel said. "He has veryadvanced opinions."

"He has very advanced stone walls. His park's enclosed by agigantic iron fence, some thirty miles round," Henrietta an-nounced for the information of Mr. Osmond. "I should like himto converse with a few of our Boston radicals."

"Don't they approve of iron fences?" asked Mr. Bantling."Only to shut up wicked conservatives. I always feel as if I

were talking to YOU over something with a neat top-finish ofbroken glass."

"Do you know him well, this unreformed reformer?" Osmondwent on, questioning Isabel.

"Well enough for all the use I have for him.""And how much of a use is that?""Well, I like to like him.""'Liking to like'—why, it makes a passion!" said Osmond."No"—she considered—"keep that for liking to DISlike.""Do you wish to provoke me then," Osmond laughed, "to a

passion for HIM?"

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She said nothing for a moment, but then met the light ques-tion with a disproportionate gravity. "No, Mr. Osmond; I don'tthink I should ever dare to provoke you. Lord Warburton, atany rate," she more easily added, "is a very nice man."

"Of great ability?" her friend enquired."Of excellent ability, and as good as he looks.""As good as he's good-looking do you mean? He's very good-

looking. How detestably fortunate!—to be a great English mag-nate, to be clever and handsome into the bargain, and, by wayof finishing off, to enjoy your high favour! That's a man I couldenvy."

Isabel considered him with interest. "You seem to me to bealways envying some one. Yesterday it was the Pope; to-day it'spoor Lord Warburton."

"My envy's not dangerous; it wouldn't hurt a mouse. I don'twant to destroy the people—I only want to BE them. You see itwould destroy only myself."

"You'd like to be the Pope?" said Isabel."I should love it—but I should have gone in for it earlier. But

why"—Osmond reverted—"do you speak of your friend aspoor?"

"Women—when they are very, very good sometimes pity menafter they've hurt them; that's their great way of showing kind-ness," said Ralph, joining in the conversation for the first timeand with a cynicism so transparently ingenious as to be virtu-ally innocent.

"Pray, have I hurt Lord Warburton?" Isabel asked, raising hereyebrows as if the idea were perfectly fresh.

"It serves him right if you have," said Henrietta while thecurtain rose for the ballet.

Isabel saw no more of her attributive victim for the nexttwenty-four hours, but on the second day after the visit to theopera she encountered him in the gallery of the Capitol, wherehe stood before the lion of the collection, the statue of the Dy-ing Gladiator. She had come in with her companions, amongwhom, on this occasion again, Gilbert Osmond had his place,and the party, having ascended the staircase, entered the firstand finest of the rooms. Lord Warburton addressed her alertlyenough, but said in a moment that he was leaving the gallery."And I'm leaving Rome," he added. "I must bid you goodbye."

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Isabel, inconsequently enough, was now sorry to hear it. Thiswas perhaps because she had ceased to be afraid of his renew-ing his suit; she was thinking of something else. She was onthe point of naming her regret, but she checked herself andsimply wished him a happy journey; which made him look ather rather unlightedly. "I'm afraid you'll think me very'volatile.' I told you the other day I wanted so much to stop."

"Oh no; you could easily change your mind.""That's what I have done.""Bon voyage then.""You're in a great hurry to get rid of me," said his lordship

quite dismally."Not in the least. But I hate partings.""You don't care what I do," he went on pitifully.Isabel looked at him a moment. "Ah," she said, "you're not

keeping your promise!"He coloured like a boy of fifteen. "If I'm not, then it's because

I can't; and that's why I'm going.""Good-bye then.""Good-bye." He lingered still, however. "When shall I see you

again?"Isabel hesitated, but soon, as if she had had a happy inspira-

tion: "Some day after you're married.""That will never be. It will be after you are.""That will do as well," she smiled."Yes, quite as well. Good-bye."They shook hands, and he left her alone in the glorious room,

among the shining antique marbles. She sat down in the centreof the circle of these presences, regarding them vaguely, rest-ing her eyes on their beautiful blank faces; listening, as itwere, to their eternal silence. It is impossible, in Rome at least,to look long at a great company of Greek sculptures withoutfeeling the effect of their noble quietude; which, as with a highdoor closed for the ceremony, slowly drops on the spirit thelarge white mantle of peace. I say in Rome especially, becausethe Roman air is an exquisite medium for such impressions.The golden sunshine mingles with them, the deep stillness ofthe past, so vivid yet, though it is nothing but a void full ofnames, seems to throw a solemn spell upon them. The blindswere partly closed in the windows of the Capitol, and a clear,

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warm shadow rested on the figures and made them moremildly human. Isabel sat there a long time, under the charm oftheir motionless grace, wondering to what, of their experience,their absent eyes were open, and how, to our ears, their alienlips would sound. The dark red walls of the room threw theminto relief; the polished marble floor reflected their beauty. Shehad seen them all before, but her enjoyment repeated itself,and it was all the greater because she was glad again, for thetime, to be alone. At last, however, her attention lapsed, drawnoff by a deeper tide of life. An occasional tourist came in,stopped and stared a moment at the Dying Gladiator, and thenpassed out of the other door, creaking over the smooth pave-ment. At the end of half an hour Gilbert Osmond reappeared,apparently in advance of his companions. He strolled towardher slowly, with his hands behind him and his usual enquiring,yet not quite appealing smile. "I'm surprised to find you alone,I thought you had company.

"So I have—the best." And she glanced at the Antinous andthe Faun.

"Do you call them better company than an English peer?""Ah, my English peer left me some time ago." She got up,

speaking with intention a little dryly.Mr. Osmond noted her dryness, which contributed for him to

the interest of his question. "I'm afraid that what I heard theother evening is true: you're rather cruel to that nobleman."

Isabel looked a moment at the vanquished Gladiator. "It's nottrue. I'm scrupulously kind."

"That's exactly what I mean!" Gilbert Osmond returned, andwith such happy hilarity that his joke needs to be explained.We know that he was fond of originals, of rarities, of the super-ior and the exquisite; and now that he had seen Lord Warbur-ton, whom he thought a very fine example of his race and or-der, he perceived a new attraction in the idea of taking to him-self a young lady who had qualified herself to figure in his col-lection of choice objects by declining so noble a hand. GilbertOsmond had a high appreciation of this particular patriciate;not so much for its distinction, which he thought easily sur-passable, as for its solid actuality. He had never forgiven hisstar for not appointing him to an English dukedom, and hecould measure the unexpectedness of such conduct as Isabel's.

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It would be proper that the woman he might marry should havedone something of that sort.

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Chapter 29Ralph Touchett, in talk with his excellent friend, had rathermarkedly qualified, as we know, his recognition of GilbertOsmond's personal merits; but he might really have felt himselfilliberal in the light of that gentleman's conduct during the restof the visit to Rome. Osmond spent a portion of each day withIsabel and her companions, and ended by affecting them as theeasiest of men to live with. Who wouldn't have seen that hecould command, as it were, both tact and gaiety?—which per-haps was exactly why Ralph had made his old-time look of su-perficial sociability a reproach to him. Even Isabel's invidiouskinsman was obliged to admit that he was just now a delightfulassociate. His good humour was imperturbable, his knowledgeof the right fact, his production of the right word, as conveni-ent as the friendly flicker of a match for your cigarette. Clearlyhe was amused—as amused as a man could be who was solittle ever surprised, and that made him almost applausive. Itwas not that his spirits were visibly high—he would never, inthe concert of pleasure, touch the big drum by so much as aknuckle: he had a mortal dislike to the high, ragged note, towhat he called random ravings. He thought Miss Archer some-times of too precipitate a readiness. It was pity she had thatfault, because if she had not had it she would really have hadnone; she would have been as smooth to his general need ofher as handled ivory to the palm. If he was not personally loud,however, he was deep, and during these closing days of the Ro-man May he knew a complacency that matched with slow ir-regular walks under the pines of the Villa Borghese, among thesmall sweet meadow-flowers and the mossy marbles. He waspleased with everything; he had never before been pleasedwith so many things at once. Old impressions, old enjoyments,renewed themselves; one evening, going home to his room atthe inn, he wrote down a little sonnet to which he prefixed the

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title of "Rome Revisited." A day or two later he showed thispiece of correct and ingenious verse to Isabel, explaining toher that it was an Italian fashion to commemorate the occa-sions of life by a tribute to the muse.

He took his pleasures in general singly; he was too often—hewould have admitted that—too sorely aware of somethingwrong, something ugly; the fertilising dew of a conceivable feli-city too seldom descended on his spirit. But at present he washappy— happier than he had perhaps ever been in his life, andthe feeling had a large foundation. This was simply the sense ofsuccess—the most agreeable emotion of the human heart. Os-mond had never had too much of it; in this respect he had theirritation of satiety, as he knew perfectly well and often re-minded himself. "Ah no, I've not been spoiled; certainly I've notbeen spoiled," he used inwardly to repeat. "If I do succeed be-fore I die I shall thoroughly have earned it." He was too apt toreason as if "earning" this boon consisted above all of covertlyaching for it and might be confined to that exercise. Absolutelyvoid of it, also, his career had not been; he might indeed havesuggested to a spectator here and there that he was resting onvague laurels. But his triumphs were, some of them, now tooold; others had been too easy. The present one had been lessarduous than might have been expected, but had been easy—that is had been rapid—only because he had made an altogeth-er exceptional effort, a greater effort than he had believed it inhim to make. The desire to have something or other to showfor his "parts"—to show somehow or other—had been thedream of his youth; but as the years went on the conditions at-tached to any marked proof of rarity had affected him moreand more as gross and detestable; like the swallowing of mugsof beer to advertise what one could "stand." If an anonymousdrawing on a museum wall had been conscious and watchful itmight have known this peculiar pleasure of being at last and allof a sudden identified—as from the hand of a great master—bythe so high and so unnoticed fact of style. His "style" was whatthe girl had discovered with a little help; and now, beside her-self enjoying it, she should publish it to the world without hishaving any of the trouble. She should do the thing FOR him,and he would not have waited in vain.

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Shortly before the time fixed in advance for her departurethis young lady received from Mrs. Touchett a telegram run-ning as follows: "Leave Florence 4th June for Bellaggio, andtake you if you have not other views. But can't wait if youdawdle in Rome." The dawdling in Rome was very pleasant, butIsabel had different views, and she let her aunt know shewould immediately join her. She told Gilbert Osmond that shehad done so, and he replied that, spending many of his sum-mers as well as his winters in Italy, he himself would loiter alittle longer in the cool shadow of Saint Peter's. He would notreturn to Florence for ten days more, and in that time shewould have started for Bellaggio. It might be months in thiscase before he should see her again. This exchange took placein the large decorated sitting-room occupied by our friends atthe hotel; it was late in the evening, and Ralph Touchett was totake his cousin back to Florence on the morrow. Osmond hadfound the girl alone; Miss Stackpole had contracted a friend-ship with a delightful American family on the fourth floor andhad mounted the interminable staircase to pay them a visit.Henrietta contracted friendships, in travelling, with great free-dom, and had formed in railway-carriages several that wereamong her most valued ties. Ralph was making arrangementsfor the morrow's journey, and Isabel sat alone in a wildernessof yellow upholstery. The chairs and sofas were orange; thewalls and windows were draped in purple and gilt. The mirrors,the pictures had great flamboyant frames; the ceiling wasdeeply vaulted and painted over with naked muses and cher-ubs. For Osmond the place was ugly to distress; the false col-ours, the sham splendour were like vulgar, bragging, lying talk.Isabel had taken in hand a volume of Ampere, presented, ontheir arrival in Rome, by Ralph; but though she held it in herlap with her finger vaguely kept in the place she was not impa-tient to pursue her study. A lamp covered with a drooping veilof pink tissue-paper burned on the table beside her and dif-fused a strange pale rosiness over the scene.

"You say you'll come back; but who knows?" Gilbert Osmondsaid.

"I think you're much more likely to start on your voyageround the world. You're under no obligation to come back; youcan do exactly what you choose; you can roam through space."

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"Well, Italy's a part of space," Isabel answered. "I can take iton the way."

"On the way round the world? No, don't do that. Don't put usin a parenthesis—give us a chapter to ourselves. I don't want tosee you on your travels. I'd rather see you when they're over. Ishould like to see you when you're tired and satiated," Osmondadded in a moment. "I shall prefer you in that state."

Isabel, with her eyes bent, fingered the pages of M. Ampere."You turn things into ridicule without seeming to do it, thoughnot, I think, without intending it. You've no respect for mytravels— you think them ridiculous."

"Where do you find that?"She went on in the same tone, fretting the edge of her book

with the paper-knife. "You see my ignorance, my blunders, theway I wander about as if the world belonged to me, simply be-cause— because it has been put into my power to do so. Youdon't think a woman ought to do that. You think it bold andungraceful."

"I think it beautiful," said Osmond. "You know my opin-ions—I've treated you to enough of them. Don't you remembermy telling you that one ought to make one's life a work of art?You looked rather shocked at first; but then I told you that itwas exactly what you seemed to me to be trying to do withyour own."

She looked up from her book. "What you despise most in theworld is bad, is stupid art."

"Possibly. But yours seem to me very clear and very good.""If I were to go to Japan next winter you would laugh at me,"

she went on.Osmond gave a smile—a keen one, but not a laugh, for the

tone of their conversation was not jocose. Isabel had in fact hersolemnity; he had seen it before. "You have one!"

"That's exactly what I say. You think such an idea absurd.""I would give my little finger to go to Japan; it's one of the

countries I want most to see. Can't you believe that, with mytaste for old lacquer?"

"I haven't a taste for old lacquer to excuse me," said Isabel."You've a better excuse—the means of going. You're quite

wrong in your theory that I laugh at you. I don't know what hasput it into your head."

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"It wouldn't be remarkable if you did think it ridiculous that Ishould have the means to travel when you've not; for you knoweverything and I know nothing."

"The more reason why you should travel and learn," smiledOsmond. "Besides," he added as if it were a point to be made,"I don't know everything."

Isabel was not struck with the oddity of his saying thisgravely; she was thinking that the pleasantest incident of herlife—so it pleased her to qualify these too few days in Rome,which she might musingly have likened to the figure of somesmall princess of one of the ages of dress overmuffled in amantle of state and dragging a train that it took pages or his-torians to hold up— that this felicity was coming to an end.That most of the interest of the time had been owing to Mr. Os-mond was a reflexion she was not just now at pains to make;she had already done the point abundant justice. But she saidto herself that if there were a danger they should never meetagain, perhaps after all it would be as well. Happy things don'trepeat themselves, and her adventure wore already thechanged, the seaward face of some romantic island fromwhich, after feasting on purple grapes, she was putting offwhile the breeze rose. She might come back to Italy and findhim different—this strange man who pleased her just as hewas; and it would be better not to come than run the risk ofthat. But if she was not to come the greater the pity that thechapter was closed; she felt for a moment a pang that touchedthe source of tears. The sensation kept her silent, and GilbertOsmond was silent too; he was looking at her. "Go every-where," he said at last, in a low, kind voice; "do everything; geteverything out of life. Be happy,—be triumphant."

"What do you mean by being triumphant?""Well, doing what you like.""To triumph, then, it seems to me, is to fail! Doing all the

vain things one likes is often very tiresome.""Exactly," said Osmond with his quiet quickness. "As I intim-

ated just now, you'll be tired some day." He paused a momentand then he went on: "I don't know whether I had better notwait till then for something I want to say to you."

"Ah, I can't advise you without knowing what it is. But I'mhorrid when I'm tired," Isabel added with due inconsequence.

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"I don't believe that. You're angry, sometimes—that I can be-lieve, though I've never seen it. But I'm sure you're never'cross.'"

"Not even when I lose my temper?""You don't lose it—you find it, and that must be beautiful."

Osmond spoke with a noble earnestness. "They must be greatmoments to see."

"If I could only find it now!" Isabel nervously cried."I'm not afraid; I should fold my arms and admire you. I'm

speaking very seriously." He leaned forward, a hand on eachknee; for some moments he bent his eyes on the floor. "What Iwish to say to you," he went on at last, looking up, "is that Ifind I'm in love with you."

She instantly rose. "Ah, keep that till I am tired!""Tired of hearing it from others?" He sat there raising his

eyes to her. "No, you may heed it now or never, as you please.But after all I must say it now." She had turned away, but inthe movement she had stopped herself and dropped her gazeupon him. The two remained a while in this situation, exchan-ging a long look —the large, conscious look of the critical hoursof life. Then he got up and came near her, deeply respectful, asif he were afraid he had been too familiar. "I'm absolutely inlove with you."

He had repeated the announcement in a tone of almost im-personal discretion, like a man who expected very little from itbut who spoke for his own needed relief. The tears came intoher eyes: this time they obeyed the sharpness of the pang thatsuggested to her somehow the slipping of a fine bolt—back-ward, forward, she couldn't have said which. The words he haduttered made him, as he stood there, beautiful and generous,invested him as with the golden air of early autumn; but, mor-ally speaking, she retreated before them—facing him still—asshe had retreated in the other cases before a like encounter."Oh don't say that, please," she answered with an intensity thatexpressed the dread of having, in this case too, to choose anddecide. What made her dread great was precisely the forcewhich, as it would seem, ought to have banished all dread—thesense of something within herself, deep down, that she sup-posed to be inspired and trustful passion. It was there like a

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large sum stored in a bank—which there was a terror in havingto begin to spend. If she touched it, it would all come out.

"I haven't the idea that it will matter much to you," said Os-mond. "I've too little to offer you. What I have—it's enough forme; but it's not enough for you. I've neither fortune, nor fame,nor extrinsic advantages of any kind. So I offer nothing. I onlytell you because I think it can't offend you, and some day orother it may give you pleasure. It gives me pleasure, I assureyou," he went on, standing there before her, considerately in-clined to her, turning his hat, which he had taken up, slowlyround with a movement which had all the decent tremor ofawkwardness and none of its oddity, and presenting to her hisfirm, refined, slightly ravaged face. "It gives me no pain, be-cause it's perfectly simple. For me you'll always be the mostimportant woman in the world."

Isabel looked at herself in this character—looked intently,thinking she filled it with a certain grace. But what she saidwas not an expression of any such complacency. "You don't of-fend me; but you ought to remember that, without being offen-ded, one may be incommoded, troubled." "Incommoded," sheheard herself saying that, and it struck her as a ridiculousword. But it was what stupidly came to her.

"I remember perfectly. Of course you're surprised andstartled. But if it's nothing but that, it will pass away. And itwill perhaps leave something that I may not be ashamed of."

"I don't know what it may leave. You see at all events that I'mnot overwhelmed," said Isabel with rather a pale smile. "I'mnot too troubled to think. And I think that I'm glad I leaveRome to-morrow."

"Of course I don't agree with you there.""I don't at all KNOW you," she added abruptly; and then she

coloured as she heard herself saying what she had said almosta year before to Lord Warburton.

"If you were not going away you'd know me better.""I shall do that some other time.""I hope so. I'm very easy to know.""No, no," she emphatically answered—"there you're not sin-

cere. You're not easy to know; no one could be less so.""Well," he laughed, "I said that because I know myself. It may

be a boast, but I do."

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"Very likely; but you're very wise.""So are you, Miss Archer!" Osmond exclaimed."I don't feel so just now. Still, I'm wise enough to think you

had better go. Good-night.""God bless you!" said Gilbert Osmond, taking the hand which

she failed to surrender. After which he added: "If we meetagain you'll find me as you leave me. If we don't I shall be so allthe same."

"Thank you very much. Good-bye."There was something quietly firm about Isabel's visitor; he

might go of his own movement, but wouldn't be dismissed."There's one thing more. I haven't asked anything of you—noteven a thought in the future; you must do me that justice. Butthere's a little service I should like to ask. I shall not returnhome for several days; Rome's delightful, and it's a good placefor a man in my state of mind. Oh, I know you're sorry to leaveit; but you're right to do what your aunt wishes."

"She doesn't even wish it!" Isabel broke out strangely.Osmond was apparently on the point of saying something

that would match these words, but he changed his mind andrejoined simply: "Ah well, it's proper you should go with her,very proper. Do everything that's proper; I go in for that. Ex-cuse my being so patronising. You say you don't know me, butwhen you do you'll discover what a worship I have forpropriety."

"You're not conventional?" Isabel gravely asked."I like the way you utter that word! No, I'm not conventional:

I'm convention itself. You don't understand that?" And hepaused a moment, smiling. "I should like to explain it." Thenwith a sudden, quick, bright naturalness, "Do come backagain," he pleaded. "There are so many things we might talkabout."

She stood there with lowered eyes. "What service did youspeak of just now?"

"Go and see my little daughter before you leave Florence.She's alone at the villa; I decided not to send her to my sister,who hasn't at all my ideas. Tell her she must love her poor fath-er very much," said Gilbert Osmond gently.

"It will be a great pleasure to me to go," Isabel answered."I'll tell her what you say. Once more good-bye."

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On this he took a rapid, respectful leave. When he had goneshe stood a moment looking about her and seated herselfslowly and with an air of deliberation. She sat there till hercompanions came back, with folded hands, gazing at the uglycarpet. Her agitation—for it had not diminished—was very still,very deep. What had happened was something that for a weekpast her imagination had been going forward to meet; buthere, when it came, she stopped—that sublime principle some-how broke down. The working of this young lady's spirit wasstrange, and I can only give it to you as I see it, not hoping tomake it seem altogether natural. Her imagination, as I say,now hung back: there was a last vague space it couldn'tcross—a dusky, uncertain tract which looked ambiguous andeven slightly treacherous, like a moorland seen in the wintertwilight. But she was to cross it yet.

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Chapter 30She returned on the morrow to Florence, under her cousin'sescort, and Ralph Touchett, though usually restive under rail-way discipline, thought very well of the successive hourspassed in the train that hurried his companion away from thecity now distinguished by Gilbert Osmond's preference—hoursthat were to form the first stage in a larger scheme of travel.Miss Stackpole had remained behind; she was planning a littletrip to Naples, to be carried out with Mr. Bantling's aid. Isabelwas to have three days in Florence before the 4th of June, thedate of Mrs. Touchett's departure, and she determined to de-vote the last of these to her promise to call on Pansy Osmond.Her plan, however, seemed for a moment likely to modify itselfin deference to an idea of Madame Merle's. This lady was stillat Casa Touchett; but she too was on the point of leavingFlorence, her next station being an ancient castle in the moun-tains of Tuscany, the residence of a noble family of that coun-try, whose acquaintance (she had known them, as she said,"forever") seemed to Isabel, in the light of certain photographsof their immense crenellated dwelling which her friend wasable to show her, a precious privilege. She mentioned to thisfortunate woman that Mr. Osmond had asked her to take a lookat his daughter, but didn't mention that he had also made her adeclaration of love.

"Ah, comme cela se trouve!" Madame Merle exclaimed. "Imyself have been thinking it would be a kindness to pay thechild a little visit before I go off."

"We can go together then," Isabel reasonably said: "reason-ably" because the proposal was not uttered in the spirit of en-thusiasm. She had prefigured her small pilgrimage as made insolitude; she should like it better so. She was nevertheless pre-pared to sacrifice this mystic sentiment to her great considera-tion for her friend.

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That personage finely meditated. "After all, why should weboth go; having, each of us, so much to do during these lasthours?"

"Very good; I can easily go alone.""I don't know about your going alone—to the house of a

handsome bachelor. He has been married—but so long ago!"Isabel stared. "When Mr. Osmond's away what does it

matter?""They don't know he's away, you see.""They? Whom do you mean?""Every one. But perhaps it doesn't signify.""If you were going why shouldn't I?" Isabel asked."Because I'm an old frump and you're a beautiful young

woman.""Granting all that, you've not promised.""How much you think of your promises!" said the elder wo-

man in mild mockery."I think a great deal of my promises. Does that surprise you?""You're right," Madame Merle audibly reflected. "I really

think you wish to be kind to the child.""I wish very much to be kind to her.""Go and see her then; no one will be the wiser. And tell her

I'd have come if you hadn't. Or rather," Madame Merle added,"DON'T tell her. She won't care."

As Isabel drove, in the publicity of an open vehicle, along thewinding way which led to Mr. Osmond's hill-top, she wonderedwhat her friend had meant by no one's being the wiser. Once ina while, at large intervals, this lady, whose voyaging discretion,as a general thing, was rather of the open sea than of the riskychannel, dropped a remark of ambiguous quality, struck a notethat sounded false. What cared Isabel Archer for the vulgarjudgements of obscure people? and did Madame Merle sup-pose that she was capable of doing a thing at all if it had to besneakingly done? Of course not: she must have meantsomething else—something which in the press of the hours thatpreceded her departure she had not had time to explain. Isabelwould return to this some day; there were sorts of things as towhich she liked to be clear. She heard Pansy strumming at thepiano in another place as she herself was ushered into Mr.Osmond's drawing-room; the little girl was "practising," and

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Isabel was pleased to think she performed this duty withrigour. She immediately came in, smoothing down her frock,and did the honours of her father's house with a wide-eyedearnestness of courtesy. Isabel sat there half an hour, andPansy rose to the occasion as the small, winged fairy in thepantomime soars by the aid of the dissimulated wire —notchattering, but conversing, and showing the same respectfulinterest in Isabel's affairs that Isabel was so good as to take inhers. Isabel wondered at her; she had never had so directlypresented to her nose the white flower of cultivated sweetness.How well the child had been taught, said our admiring youngwoman; how prettily she had been directed and fashioned; andyet how simple, how natural, how innocent she had been kept!Isabel was fond, ever, of the question of character and quality,of sounding, as who should say, the deep personal mystery,and it had pleased her, up to this time, to be in doubt as towhether this tender slip were not really all-knowing. Was theextremity of her candour but the perfection of self-conscious-ness? Was it put on to please her father's visitor, or was it thedirect expression of an unspotted nature? The hour that Isabelspent in Mr. Osmond's beautiful empty, dusky rooms—the win-dows had been half-darkened, to keep out the heat, and hereand there, through an easy crevice, the splendid summer daypeeped in, lighting a gleam of faded colour or tarnished gilt inthe rich gloom—her interview with the daughter of the house, Isay, effectually settled this question. Pansy was really a blankpage, a pure white surface, successfully kept so; she hadneither art, nor guile, nor temper, nor talent—only two or threesmall exquisite instincts: for knowing a friend, for avoiding amistake, for taking care of an old toy or a new frock. Yet to beso tender was to be touching withal, and she could be felt as aneasy victim of fate. She would have no will, no power to resist,no sense of her own importance; she would easily be mystified,easily crushed: her force would be all in knowing when andwhere to cling. She moved about the place with her visitor,who had asked leave to walk through the other rooms again,where Pansy gave her judgement on several works of art. Shespoke of her prospects, her occupations, her father's inten-tions; she was not egotistical, but felt the propriety of

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supplying the information so distinguished a guest would nat-urally expect.

"Please tell me," she said, "did papa, in Rome, go to see Ma-dame Catherine? He told me he would if he had time. Perhapshe had not time. Papa likes a great deal of time. He wished tospeak about my education; it isn't finished yet, you know. Idon't know what they can do with me more; but it appears it'sfar from finished. Papa told me one day he thought he wouldfinish it himself; for the last year or two, at the convent, themasters that teach the tall girls are so very dear. Papa's notrich, and I should be very sorry if he were to pay much moneyfor me, because I don't think I'm worth it. I don't learn quicklyenough, and I have no memory. For what I'm told, yes—espe-cially when it's pleasant; but not for what I learn in a book.There was a young girl who was my best friend, and they tookher away from the convent, when she was fourteen, tomake—how do you say it in English?—to make a dot. You don'tsay it in English? I hope it isn't wrong; I only mean they wishedto keep the money to marry her. I don't know whether it is forthat that papa wishes to keep the money— to marry me. Itcosts so much to marry!" Pansy went on with a sigh; "I thinkpapa might make that economy. At any rate I'm too young tothink about it yet, and I don't care for any gentleman; I meanfor any but him. If he were not my papa I should like to marryhim; I would rather be his daughter than the wife of—of somestrange person. I miss him very much, but not so much as youmight think, for I've been so much away from him. Papa has al-ways been principally for holidays. I miss Madame Catherinealmost more; but you must not tell him that. You shall not seehim again? I'm very sorry, and he'll be sorry too. Of everyonewho comes here I like you the best. That's not a great compli-ment, for there are not many people. It was very kind of you tocome to-day—so far from your house; for I'm really as yet onlya child. Oh, yes, I've only the occupations of a child. When didYOU give them up, the occupations of a child? I should like toknow how old you are, but I don't know whether it's right toask. At the convent they told us that we must never ask theage. I don't like to do anything that's not expected; it looks as ifone had not been properly taught. I myself—I should never liketo be taken by surprise. Papa left directions for everything. I go

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to bed very early. When the sun goes off that side I go into thegarden. Papa left strict orders that I was not to get scorched. Ialways enjoy the view; the mountains are so graceful. In Rome,from the convent, we saw nothing but roofs and bell-towers. Ipractise three hours. I don't play very well. You play yourself? Iwish very much you'd play something for me; papa has the ideathat I should hear good music. Madame Merle has played forme several times; that's what I like best about Madame Merle;she has great facility. I shall never have facility. And I've novoice—just a small sound like the squeak of a slate-pencil mak-ing flourishes."

Isabel gratified this respectful wish, drew off her gloves andsat down to the piano, while Pansy, standing beside her,watched her white hands move quickly over the keys. Whenshe stopped she kissed the child good-bye, held her close,looked at her long. "Be very good," she said; "give pleasure toyour father."

"I think that's what I live for," Pansy answered. "He has notmuch pleasure; he's rather a sad man."

Isabel listened to this assertion with an interest which shefelt it almost a torment to be obliged to conceal. It was herpride that obliged her, and a certain sense of decency; therewere still other things in her head which she felt a strong im-pulse, instantly checked, to say to Pansy about her father;there were things it would have given her pleasure to hear thechild, to make the child, say. But she no sooner became con-scious of these things than her imagination was hushed withhorror at the idea of taking advantage of the little girl—it wasof this she would have accused herself—and of exhaling intothat air where he might still have a subtle sense for it anybreath of her charmed state. She had come—she had come; butshe had stayed only an hour. She rose quickly from the music-stool; even then, however, she lingered a moment, still holdingher small companion, drawing the child's sweet slimness closerand looking down at her almost in envy. She was obliged toconfess it to herself—she would have taken a passionate pleas-ure in talking of Gilbert Osmond to this innocent, diminutivecreature who was so near him. But she said no other word; sheonly kissed Pansy once again. They went together through thevestibule, to the door that opened on the court; and there her

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young hostess stopped, looking rather wistfully beyond. "I maygo no further. I've promised papa not to pass this door."

"You're right to obey him; he'll never ask you anythingunreasonable."

"I shall always obey him. But when will you come again?""Not for a long time, I'm afraid.""As soon as you can, I hope. I'm only a little girl," said Pansy,

"but I shall always expect you." And the small figure stood inthe high, dark doorway, watching Isabel cross the clear, greycourt and disappear into the brightness beyond the big por-tone, which gave a wider dazzle as it opened.

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Chapter 31Isabel came back to Florence, but only after several months; aninterval sufficiently replete with incident. It is not, however,during this interval that we are closely concerned with her; ourattention is engaged again on a certain day in the late spring-time, shortly after her return to Palazzo Crescentini and a yearfrom the date of the incidents just narrated. She was alone onthis occasion, in one of the smaller of the numerous rooms de-voted by Mrs. Touchett to social uses, and there was that inher expression and attitude which would have suggested thatshe was expecting a visitor. The tall window was open, andthough its green shutters were partly drawn the bright air ofthe garden had come in through a broad interstice and filledthe room with warmth and perfume. Our young woman stoodnear it for some time, her hands clasped behind her; she gazedabroad with the vagueness of unrest. Too troubled for attentionshe moved in a vain circle. Yet it could not be in her thought tocatch a glimpse of her visitor before he should pass into thehouse, since the entrance to the palace was not through thegarden, in which stillness and privacy always reigned. Shewished rather to forestall his arrival by a process of conjecture,and to judge by the expression of her face this attempt gaveher plenty to do. Grave she found herself, and positively moreweighted, as by the experience of the lapse of the year she hadspent in seeing the world. She had ranged, she would havesaid, through space and surveyed much of mankind, and wastherefore now, in her own eyes, a very different person fromthe frivolous young woman from Albany who had begun to takethe measure of Europe on the lawn at Gardencourt a couple ofyears before. She flattered herself she had harvested wisdomand learned a great deal more of life than this light-mindedcreature had even suspected. If her thoughts just now had in-clined themselves to retrospect, instead of fluttering their

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wings nervously about the present, they would have evoked amultitude of interesting pictures. These pictures would havebeen both landscapes and figure-pieces; the latter, however,would have been the more numerous. With several of the im-ages that might have been projected on such a field we arealready acquainted. There would be for instance the conciliat-ory Lily, our heroine's sister and Edmund Ludlow's wife, whohad come out from New York to spend five months with her re-lative. She had left her husband behind her, but had broughther children, to whom Isabel now played with equal munifi-cence and tenderness the part of maiden-aunt. Mr. Ludlow, to-ward the last, had been able to snatch a few weeks from hisforensic triumphs and, crossing the ocean with extreme rapid-ity, had spent a month with the two ladies in Paris before tak-ing his wife home. The little Ludlows had not yet, even fromthe American point of view, reached the proper tourist-age; sothat while her sister was with her Isabel had confined hermovements to a narrow circle. Lily and the babies had joinedher in Switzerland in the month of July, and they had spent asummer of fine weather in an Alpine valley where the flowerswere thick in the meadows and the shade of great chestnutsmade a resting-place for such upward wanderings as might beundertaken by ladies and children on warm afternoons. Theyhad afterwards reached the French capital, which was wor-shipped, and with costly ceremonies, by Lily, but thought of asnoisily vacant by Isabel, who in these days made use of hermemory of Rome as she might have done, in a hot and crowdedroom, of a phial of something pungent hidden in herhandkerchief.

Mrs. Ludlow sacrificed, as I say, to Paris, yet had doubts andwonderments not allayed at that altar; and after her husbandhad joined her found further chagrin in his failure to throwhimself into these speculations. They all had Isabel for subject;but Edmund Ludlow, as he had always done before, declined tobe surprised, or distressed, or mystified, or elated, at anythinghis sister-in-law might have done or have failed to do. Mrs.Ludlow's mental motions were sufficiently various. At one mo-ment she thought it would be so natural for that young womanto come home and take a house in New York—the Rossiters',for instance, which had an elegant conservatory and was just

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round the corner from her own; at another she couldn't concealher surprise at the girl's not marrying some member of one ofthe great aristocracies. On the whole, as I have said, she hadfallen from high communion with the probabilities. She hadtaken more satisfaction in Isabel's accession of fortune than ifthe money had been left to herself; it had seemed to her to of-fer just the proper setting for her sister's slightly meagre, butscarce the less eminent figure. Isabel had developed less,however, than Lily had thought likely—development, to Lily'sunderstanding, being somehow mysteriously connected withmorning-calls and evening-parties. Intellectually, doubtless,she had made immense strides; but she appeared to haveachieved few of those social conquests of which Mrs. Ludlowhad expected to admire the trophies. Lily's conception of suchachievements was extremely vague; but this was exactly whatshe had expected of Isabel—to give it form and body. Isabelcould have done as well as she had done in New York; and Mrs.Ludlow appealed to her husband to know whether there wasany privilege she enjoyed in Europe which the society of thatcity might not offer her. We know ourselves that Isabel hadmade conquests—whether inferior or not to those she mighthave effected in her native land it would be a delicate matter todecide; and it is not altogether with a feeling of complacencythat I again mention that she had not rendered these honour-able victories public. She had not told her sister the history ofLord Warburton, nor had she given her a hint of Mr. Osmond'sstate of mind; and she had had no better reason for her silencethan that she didn't wish to speak. It was more romantic to saynothing, and, drinking deep, in secret, of romance, she was aslittle disposed to ask poor Lily's advice as she would have beento close that rare volume forever. But Lily knew nothing ofthese discriminations, and could only pronounce her sister'scareer a strange anti-climax—an impression confirmed by thefact that Isabel's silence about Mr. Osmond, for instance, wasin direct proportion to the frequency with which he occupiedher thoughts. As this happened very often it sometimes ap-peared to Mrs. Ludlow that she had lost her courage. So un-canny a result of so exhilarating an incident as inheriting a for-tune was of course perplexing to the cheerful Lily; it added toher general sense that Isabel was not at all like other people.

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Our young lady's courage, however, might have been takenas reaching its height after her relations had gone home. Shecould imagine braver things than spending the winter in Par-is—Paris had sides by which it so resembled New York, Pariswas like smart, neat prose—and her close correspondence withMadame Merle did much to stimulate such flights. She hadnever had a keener sense of freedom, of the absolute boldnessand wantonness of liberty, than when she turned away fromthe platform at the Euston Station on one of the last days ofNovember, after the departure of the train that was to conveypoor Lily, her husband and her children to their ship at Liver-pool. It had been good for her to regale; she was very con-scious of that; she was very observant, as we know, of whatwas good for her, and her effort was constantly to findsomething that was good enough. To profit by the present ad-vantage till the latest moment she had made the journey fromParis with the unenvied travellers. She would have accompan-ied them to Liverpool as well, only Edmund Ludlow had askedher, as a favour, not to do so; it made Lily so fidgety and sheasked such impossible questions. Isabel watched the trainmove away; she kissed her hand to the elder of her small neph-ews, a demonstrative child who leaned dangerously far out ofthe window of the carriage and made separation an occasion ofviolent hilarity, and then she walked back into the foggy Lon-don street. The world lay before her—she could do whatevershe chose. There was a deep thrill in it all, but for the presenther choice was tolerably discreet; she chose simply to walkback from Euston Square to her hotel. The early dusk of aNovember afternoon had already closed in; the street-lamps, inthe thick, brown air, looked weak and red; our heroine was un-attended and Euston Square was a long way from Piccadilly.But Isabel performed the journey with a positive enjoyment ofits dangers and lost her way almost on purpose, in order to getmore sensations, so that she was disappointed when an obli-ging policeman easily set her right again. She was so fond ofthe spectacle of human life that she enjoyed even the aspect ofgathering dusk in the London streets— the moving crowds, thehurrying cabs, the lighted shops, the flaring stalls, the dark,shining dampness of everything. That evening, at her hotel, shewrote to Madame Merle that she should start in a day or two

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for Rome. She made her way down to Rome without touchingat Florence—having gone first to Venice and then proceededsouthward by Ancona. She accomplished this journey withoutother assistance than that of her servant, for her natural pro-tectors were not now on the ground. Ralph Touchett wasspending the winter at Corfu, and Miss Stackpole, in theSeptember previous, had been recalled to America by a tele-gram from the Interviewer. This journal offered its brilliantcorrespondent a fresher field for her genius than the moulder-ing cities of Europe, and Henrietta was cheered on her way bya promise from Mr. Bantling that he would soon come over tosee her. Isabel wrote to Mrs. Touchett to apologise for notpresenting herself just yet in Florence, and her aunt repliedcharacteristically enough. Apologies, Mrs. Touchett intimated,were of no more use to her than bubbles, and she herself neverdealt in such articles. One either did the thing or one didn't,and what one "would" have done belonged to the sphere of theirrelevant, like the idea of a future life or of the origin ofthings. Her letter was frank, but (a rare case with Mrs.Touchett) not so frank as it pretended. She easily forgave herniece for not stopping at Florence, because she took it for asign that Gilbert Osmond was less in question there thanformerly. She watched of course to see if he would now find apretext for going to Rome, and derived some comfort fromlearning that he had not been guilty of an absence. Isabel, onher side, had not been a fortnight in Rome before she proposedto Madame Merle that they should make a little pilgrimage tothe East. Madame Merle remarked that her friend was rest-less, but she added that she herself had always been consumedwith the desire to visit Athens and Constantinople. The twoladies accordingly embarked on this expedition, and spentthree months in Greece, in Turkey, in Egypt. Isabel found muchto interest her in these countries, though Madame Merle con-tinued to remark that even among the most classic sites, thescenes most calculated to suggest repose and reflexion, a cer-tain incoherence prevailed in her. Isabel travelled rapidly andrecklessly; she was like a thirsty person draining cup after cup.Madame Merle meanwhile, as lady-in-waiting to a princess cir-culating incognita, panted a little in her rear. It was on Isabel'sinvitation she had come, and she imparted all due dignity to

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the girl's uncountenanced state. She played her part with thetact that might have been expected of her, effacing herself andaccepting the position of a companion whose expenses wereprofusely paid. The situation, however, had no hardships, andpeople who met this reserved though striking pair on theirtravels would not have been able to tell you which was patron-ess and which client. To say that Madame Merle improved onacquaintance states meagrely the impression she made on herfriend, who had found her from the first so ample and so easy.At the end of an intimacy of three months Isabel felt she knewher better; her character had revealed itself, and the admirablewoman had also at last redeemed her promise of relating herhistory from her own point of view—a consummation the moredesirable as Isabel had already heard it related from the pointof view of others. This history was so sad a one (in so far as itconcerned the late M. Merle, a positive adventurer, she mightsay, though originally so plausible, who had taken advantage,years before, of her youth and of an inexperience in whichdoubtless those who knew her only now would find it difficultto believe); it abounded so in startling and lamentable incid-ents that her companion wondered a person so eprouvee couldhave kept so much of her freshness, her interest in life. Intothis freshness of Madame Merle's she obtained a considerableinsight; she seemed to see it as professional, as slightly mech-anical, carried about in its case like the fiddle of the virtuoso,or blanketed and bridled like the "favourite" of the jockey. Sheliked her as much as ever, but there was a corner of the cur-tain that never was lifted; it was as if she had remained afterall something of a public performer, condemned to emergeonly in character and in costume. She had once said that shecame from a distance, that she belonged to the "old, old"world, and Isabel never lost the impression that she was theproduct of a different moral or social clime from her own, thatshe had grown up under other stars.

She believed then that at bottom she had a different moral-ity. Of course the morality of civilised persons has always muchin common; but our young woman had a sense in her of valuesgone wrong or, as they said at the shops, marked down. Sheconsidered, with the presumption of youth, that a morality dif-fering from her own must be inferior to it; and this conviction

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was an aid to detecting an occasional flash of cruelty, an occa-sional lapse from candour, in the conversation of a person whohad raised delicate kindness to an art and whose pride was toohigh for the narrow ways of deception. Her conception of hu-man motives might, in certain lights, have been acquired at thecourt of some kingdom in decadence, and there were several inher list of which our heroine had not even heard. She had notheard of everything, that was very plain; and there were evid-ently things in the world of which it was not advantageous tohear. She had once or twice had a positive scare; since it so af-fected her to have to exclaim, of her friend, "Heaven forgiveher, she doesn't understand me!" Absurd as it may seem thisdiscovery operated as a shock, left her with a vague dismay inwhich there was even an element of foreboding. The dismay ofcourse subsided, in the light of some sudden proof of MadameMerle's remarkable intelligence; but it stood for a high-water-mark in the ebb and flow of confidence. Madame Merle hadonce declared her belief that when a friendship ceases to growit immediately begins to decline—there being no point of equi-librium between liking more and liking less. A stationary affec-tion, in other words, was impossible—it must move one way orthe other. However that might be, the girl had in these days athousand uses for her sense of the romantic, which was moreactive than it had ever been. I do not allude to the impulse itreceived as she gazed at the Pyramids in the course of an ex-cursion from Cairo, or as she stood among the broken columnsof the Acropolis and fixed her eyes upon the point designatedto her as the Strait of Salamis; deep and memorable as theseemotions had remained. She came back by the last of Marchfrom Egypt and Greece and made another stay in Rome. A fewdays after her arrival Gilbert Osmond descended from Florenceand remained three weeks, during which the fact of her beingwith his old friend Madame Merle, in whose house she hadgone to lodge, made it virtually inevitable that he should seeher every day. When the last of April came she wrote to Mrs.Touchett that she should now rejoice to accept an invitationgiven long before, and went to pay a visit at Palazzo Cres-centini, Madame Merle on this occasion remaining in Rome.She found her aunt alone; her cousin was still at Corfu. Ralph,however, was expected in Florence from day to day, and Isabel,

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who had not seen him for upwards of a year, was prepared togive him the most affectionate welcome.

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Chapter 32It was not of him, nevertheless, that she was thinking while shestood at the window near which we found her a while ago, andit was not of any of the matters I have rapidly sketched. Shewas not turned to the past, but to the immediate, impendinghour. She had reason to expect a scene, and she was not fondof scenes. She was not asking herself what she should say toher visitor; this question had already been answered. What hewould say to her— that was the interesting issue. It could benothing in the least soothing—she had warrant for this, and theconviction doubtless showed in the cloud on her brow. For therest, however, all clearness reigned in her; she had put awayher mourning and she walked in no small shimmering splend-our. She only, felt older— ever so much, and as if she were"worth more" for it, like some curious piece in an antiquary'scollection. She was not at any rate left indefinitely to her ap-prehensions, for a servant at last stood before her with a cardon his tray. "Let the gentleman come in," she said, and contin-ued to gaze out of the window after the footman had retired. Itwas only when she had heard the door close behind the personwho presently entered that she looked round.

Caspar Goodwood stood there—stood and received a mo-ment, from head to foot, the bright, dry gaze with which sherather withheld than offered a greeting. Whether his sense ofmaturity had kept pace with Isabel's we shall perhapspresently ascertain; let me say meanwhile that to her criticalglance he showed nothing of the injury of time. Straight, strongand hard, there was nothing in his appearance that spoke pos-itively either of youth or of age; if he had neither innocence norweakness, so he had no practical philosophy. His jaw showedthe same voluntary cast as in earlier days; but a crisis like thepresent had in it of course something grim. He had the air of aman who had travelled hard; he said nothing at first, as if he

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had been out of breath. This gave Isabel time to make a reflex-ion: "Poor fellow, what great things he's capable of, and what apity he should waste so dreadfully his splendid force! What apity too that one can't satisfy everybody!" It gave her time todo more to say at the end of a minute: "I can't tell you how Ihoped you wouldn't come!"

"I've no doubt of that." And he looked about him for a seat.Not only had he come, but he meant to settle.

"You must be very tired," said Isabel, seating herself, andgenerously, as she thought, to give him his opportunity.

"No, I'm not at all tired. Did you ever know me to be tired?""Never; I wish I had! When did you arrive?""Last night, very late; in a kind of snail-train they call the ex-

press. These Italian trains go at about the rate of an Americanfuneral."

"That's in keeping—you must have felt as if you were comingto bury me!" And she forced a smile of encouragement to aneasy view of their situation. She had reasoned the matter wellout, making it perfectly clear that she broke no faith and falsi-fied no contract; but for all this she was afraid of her visitor.She was ashamed of her fear; but she was devoutly thankfulthere was nothing else to be ashamed of. He looked at her withhis stiff insistence, an insistence in which there was such awant of tact; especially when the dull dark beam in his eye res-ted on her as a physical weight.

"No, I didn't feel that; I couldn't think of you as dead. I wish Icould!" he candidly declared.

"I thank you immensely.""I'd rather think of you as dead than as married to another

man.""That's very selfish of you!" she returned with the ardour of a

real conviction. "If you're not happy yourself others have yet aright to be."

"Very likely it's selfish; but I don't in the least mind your say-ing so. I don't mind anything you can say now—I don't feel it.The cruellest things you could think of would be mere pin-pricks. After what you've done I shall never feel anything— Imean anything but that. That I shall feel all my life."

Mr. Goodwood made these detached assertions with dry de-liberateness, in his hard, slow American tone, which flung no

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atmospheric colour over propositions intrinsically crude. Thetone made Isabel angry rather than touched her; but her angerperhaps was fortunate, inasmuch as it gave her a further reas-on for controlling herself. It was under the pressure of this con-trol that she became, after a little, irrelevant. "When did youleave New York?"

He threw up his head as if calculating. "Seventeen days ago.""You must have travelled fast in spite of your slow trains.""I came as fast as I could. I'd have come five days ago if I had

been able.""It wouldn't have made any difference, Mr. Goodwood," she

coldly smiled."Not to you—no. But to me.""You gain nothing that I see.""That's for me to judge!""Of course. To me it seems that you only torment yourself."

And then, to change the subject, she asked him if he had seenHenrietta Stackpole. He looked as if he had not come from Bo-ston to Florence to talk of Henrietta Stackpole; but heanswered, distinctly enough, that this young lady had beenwith him just before he left America. "She came to see you?"Isabel then demanded.

"Yes, she was in Boston, and she called at my office. It wasthe day I had got your letter."

"Did you tell her?" Isabel asked with a certain anxiety."Oh no," said Caspar Goodwood simply; "I didn't want to do

that. She'll hear it quick enough; she hears everything.""I shall write to her, and then she'll write to me and scold

me," Isabel declared, trying to smile again.Caspar, however, remained sternly grave. "I guess she'll

come right out," he said."On purpose to scold me?""I don't know. She seemed to think she had not seen Europe

thoroughly.""I'm glad you tell me that," Isabel said. "I must prepare for

her."Mr. Goodwood fixed his eyes for a moment on the floor; then

at last, raising them, "Does she know Mr. Osmond?" heenquired.

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"A little. And she doesn't like him. But of course I don't marryto please Henrietta," she added. It would have been better forpoor Caspar if she had tried a little more to gratify Miss Stack-pole; but he didn't say so; he only asked, presently, when hermarriage would take place. To which she made answer thatshe didn't know yet. "I can only say it will be soon. I've told noone but yourself and one other person—an old friend of Mr.Osmond's."

"Is it a marriage your friends won't like?" he demanded."I really haven't an idea. As I say, I don't marry for my

friends."He went on, making no exclamation, no comment, only ask-

ing questions, doing it quite without delicacy. "Who and whatthen is Mr. Gilbert Osmond?"

"Who and what? Nobody and nothing but a very good andvery honourable man. He's not in business," said Isabel. "He'snot rich; he's not known for anything in particular."

She disliked Mr. Goodwood's questions, but she said to her-self that she owed it to him to satisfy him as far as possible.The satisfaction poor Caspar exhibited was, however, small; hesat very upright, gazing at her. "Where does he come from?Where does he belong?"

She had never been so little pleased with the way he said"belawng." "He comes from nowhere. He has spent most of hislife in Italy."

"You said in your letter he was American. Hasn't he a nativeplace?"

"Yes, but he has forgotten it. He left it as a small boy.""Has he never gone back?""Why should he go back?" Isabel asked, flushing all defens-

ively. "He has no profession.""He might have gone back for his pleasure. Doesn't he like

the United States?""He doesn't know them. Then he's very quiet and very

simple—he contents himself with Italy.""With Italy and with you," said Mr. Goodwood with gloomy

plainness and no appearance of trying to make an epigram."What has he ever done?" he added abruptly.

"That I should marry him? Nothing at all," Isabel repliedwhile her patience helped itself by turning a little to hardness.

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"If he had done great things would you forgive me any better?Give me up, Mr. Goodwood; I'm marrying a perfect nonentity.Don't try to take an interest in him. You can't."

"I can't appreciate him; that's what you mean. And you don'tmean in the least that he's a perfect nonentity. You think he'sgrand, you think he's great, though no one else thinks so."

Isabel's colour deepened; she felt this really acute of hercompanion, and it was certainly a proof of the aid that passionmight render perceptions she had never taken for fine. "Whydo you always comeback to what others think? I can't discussMr. Osmond with you."

"Of course not," said Caspar reasonably. And he sat therewith his air of stiff helplessness, as if not only this were true,but there were nothing else that they might discuss.

"You see how little you gain," she accordingly brokeout—"how little comfort or satisfaction I can give you."

"I didn't expect you to give me much.""I don't understand then why you came.""I came because I wanted to see you once more—even just as

you are.""I appreciate that; but if you had waited a while, sooner or

later we should have been sure to meet, and our meetingwould have been pleasanter for each of us than this."

"Waited till after you're married? That's just what I didn'twant to do. You'll be different then."

"Not very. I shall still be a great friend of yours. You'll see.""That will make it all the worse," said Mr. Goodwood grimly."Ah, you're unaccommodating! I can't promise to dislike you

in order to help you to resign yourself.""I shouldn't care if you did!"Isabel got up with a movement of repressed impatience and

walked to the window, where she remained a moment lookingout. When she turned round her visitor was still motionless inhis place. She came toward him again and stopped, resting herhand on the back of the chair she had just quitted. "Do youmean you came simply to look at me? That's better for you per-haps than for me."

"I wished to hear the sound of your voice," he said."You've heard it, and you see it says nothing very sweet."

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"It gives me pleasure, all the same." And with this he got up.She had felt pain and displeasure on receiving early that daythe news he was in Florence and by her leave would comewithin an hour to see her. She had been vexed and distressed,though she had sent back word by his messenger that he mightcome when he would. She had not been better pleased whenshe saw him; his being there at all was so full of heavy implica-tions. It implied things she could never assent to—rights, re-proaches, remonstrance, rebuke, the expectation of makingher change her purpose. These things, however, if implied, hadnot been expressed; and now our young lady, strangelyenough, began to resent her visitor's remarkable self-control.There was a dumb misery about him that irritated her; therewas a manly staying of his hand that made her heart beatfaster. She felt her agitation rising, and she said to herself thatshe was angry in the way a woman is angry when she has beenin the wrong. She was not in the wrong; she had fortunatelynot that bitterness to swallow; but, all the same, she wished hewould denounce her a little. She had wished his visit would beshort; it had no purpose, no propriety; yet now that he seemedto be turning away she felt a sudden horror of his leaving herwithout uttering a word that would give her an opportunity todefend herself more than she had done in writing to him amonth before, in a few carefully chosen words, to announceher engagement. If she were not in the wrong, however, whyshould she desire to defend herself? It was an excess of gener-osity on Isabel's part to desire that Mr. Goodwood should beangry. And if he had not meanwhile held himself hard it mighthave made him so to hear the tone in which she suddenly ex-claimed, as if she were accusing him of having accused her:"I've not deceived you! I was perfectly free!"

"Yes, I know that," said Caspar."I gave you full warning that I'd do as I chose.""You said you'd probably never marry, and you said it with

such a manner that I pretty well believed it."She considered this an instant. "No one can be more sur-

prised than myself at my present intention.""You told me that if I heard you were engaged I was not to

believe it," Caspar went on. "I heard it twenty days ago from

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yourself, but I remembered what you had said. I thought theremight be some mistake, and that's partly why I came."

"If you wish me to repeat it by word of mouth, that's soondone. There's no mistake whatever."

"I saw that as soon as I came into the room.""What good would it do you that I shouldn't marry?" she

asked with a certain fierceness."I should like it better than this.""You're very selfish, as I said before.""I know that. I'm selfish as iron.""Even iron sometimes melts! If you'll be reasonable I'll see

you again.""Don't you call me reasonable now?""I don't know what to say to you," she answered with sudden

humility."I shan't trouble you for a long time," the young man went

on. He made a step towards the door, but he stopped. "Anotherreason why I came was that I wanted to hear what you wouldsay in explanation of your having changed your mind."

Her humbleness as suddenly deserted her. "In explanation?Do you think I'm bound to explain?"

He gave her one of his long dumb looks. "You were very pos-itive. I did believe it."

"So did I. Do you think I could explain if I would?""No, I suppose not. Well," he added, "I've done what I

wished. I've seen you.""How little you make of these terrible journeys," she felt the

poverty of her presently replying."If you're afraid I'm knocked up—in any such way as

that—you may he at your ease about it." He turned away, thistime in earnest, and no hand-shake, no sign of parting, was ex-changed between them.

At the door he stopped with his hand on the knob. "I shallleave Florence to-morrow," he said without a quaver.

"I'm delighted to hear it!" she answered passionately. Fiveminutes after he had gone out she burst into tears.

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Chapter 33Her fit of weeping, however, was soon smothered, and thesigns of it had vanished when, an hour later, she broke thenews to her aunt. I use this expression because she had beensure Mrs. Touchett would not be pleased; Isabel had onlywaited to tell her till she had seen Mr. Goodwood. She had anodd impression that it would not be honourable to make thefact public before she should have heard what Mr. Goodwoodwould say about it. He had said rather less than she expected,and she now had a somewhat angry sense of having lost time.But she would lose no more; she waited till Mrs. Touchett cameinto the drawing-room before the mid-day breakfast, and thenshe began. "Aunt Lydia, I've something to tell you."

Mrs. Touchett gave a little jump and looked at her almostfiercely. "You needn't tell me; I know what it is."

"I don't know how you know.""The same way that I know when the window's open—by feel-

ing a draught. You're going to marry that man.""What man do you mean?" Isabel enquired with great dignity."Madame Merle's friend—Mr. Osmond.""I don't know why you call him Madame Merle's friend. Is

that the principal thing he's known by?""If he's not her friend he ought to be—after what she has

done for him!" cried Mrs. Touchett. "I shouldn't have expectedit of her; I'm disappointed."

"If you mean that Madame Merle has had anything to do withmy engagement you're greatly mistaken," Isabel declared witha sort of ardent coldness.

"You mean that your attractions were sufficient, without thegentleman's having had to be lashed up? You're quite right.They're immense, your attractions, and he would never havepresumed to think of you if she hadn't put him up to it. He has

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a very good opinion of himself, but he was not a man to taketrouble. Madame Merle took the trouble for him."

"He has taken a great deal for himself!" cried Isabel with avoluntary laugh.

Mrs. Touchett gave a sharp nod. "I think he must, after all, tohave made you like him so much."

"I thought he even pleased YOU.""He did, at one time; and that's why I'm angry with him.""Be angry with me, not with him," said the girl."Oh, I'm always angry with you; that's no satisfaction! Was it

for this that you refused Lord Warburton?""Please don't go back to that. Why shouldn't I like Mr. Os-

mond, since others have done so?""Others, at their wildest moments, never wanted to marry

him. There's nothing OF him," Mrs. Touchett explained."Then he can't hurt me," said Isabel."Do you think you're going to be happy? No one's happy, in

such doings, you should know.""I shall set the fashion then. What does one marry for?""What YOU will marry for, heaven only knows. People usually

marry as they go into partnership—to set up a house. But inyour partnership you'll bring everything."

"Is it that Mr. Osmond isn't rich? Is that what you're talkingabout?" Isabel asked.

"He has no money; he has no name; he has no importance. Ivalue such things and I have the courage to say it; I thinkthey're very precious. Many other people think the same, andthey show it. But they give some other reason."

Isabel hesitated a little. "I think I value everything that'svaluable. I care very much for money, and that's why I wishMr. Osmond to have a little."

"Give it to him then; but marry some one else.""His name's good enough for me," the girl went on. "It's a

very pretty name. Have I such a fine one myself?""All the more reason you should improve on it. There are only

a dozen American names. Do you marry him out of charity?""It was my duty to tell you, Aunt Lydia, but I don't think it's

my duty to explain to you. Even if it were I shouldn't be able.So please don't remonstrate; in talking about it you have me ata disadvantage. I can't talk about it."

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"I don't remonstrate, I simply answer you: I must give somesign of intelligence. I saw it coming, and I said nothing. I nevermeddle."

"You never do, and I'm greatly obliged to you. You've beenvery considerate."

"It was not considerate—it was convenient," said Mrs.Touchett. "But I shall talk to Madame Merle."

"I don't see why you keep bringing her in. She has been avery good friend to me."

"Possibly; but she has been a poor one to me.""What has she done to you?""She has deceived me. She had as good as promised me to

prevent your engagement.""She couldn't have prevented it.""She can do anything; that's what I've always liked her for. I

knew she could play any part; but I understood that she playedthem one by one. I didn't understand that she would play twoat the same time."

"I don't know what part she may have played to you," Isabelsaid; "that's between yourselves. To me she has been honestand kind and devoted."

"Devoted, of course; she wished you to marry her candidate.She told me she was watching you only in order to interpose."

"She said that to please you," the girl answered; conscious,however, of the inadequacy of the explanation.

"To please me by deceiving me? She knows me better. Am Ipleased to-day?"

"I don't think you're ever much pleased," Isabel was obligedto reply. "If Madame Merle knew you would learn the truthwhat had she to gain by insincerity?"

"She gained time, as you see. While I waited for her to inter-fere you were marching away, and she was really beating thedrum."

"That's very well. But by your own admission you saw I wasmarching, and even if she had given the alarm you wouldn'thave tried to stop me."

"No, but some one else would.""Whom do you mean?" Isabel asked, looking very hard at her

aunt. Mrs. Touchett's little bright eyes, active as they usually

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were, sustained her gaze rather than returned it. "Would youhave listened to Ralph?"

"Not if he had abused Mr. Osmond.""Ralph doesn't abuse people; you know that perfectly. He

cares very much for you.""I know he does," said Isabel; "and I shall feel the value of it

now, for he knows that whatever I do I do with reason.""He never believed you would do this. I told him you were

capable of it, and he argued the other way.""He did it for the sake of argument," the girl smiled. "You

don't accuse him of having deceived you; why should you ac-cuse Madame Merle?"

"He never pretended he'd prevent it.""I'm glad of that!" cried Isabel gaily. "I wish very much," she

presently added, "that when he comes you'd tell him first of myengagement."

"Of course I'll mention it," said Mrs. Touchett. "I shall saynothing more to you about it, but I give you notice I shall talkto others."

"That's as you please. I only meant that it's rather better theannouncement should come from you than from me."

"I quite agree with you; it's much more proper!" And on thisthe aunt and the niece went to breakfast, where Mrs. Touchett,as good as her word, made no allusion to Gilbert Osmond. Afteran interval of silence, however, she asked her companion fromwhom she had received a visit an hour before.

"From an old friend—an American gentleman," Isabel saidwith a colour in her cheek.

"An American gentleman of course. It's only an Americangentleman who calls at ten o'clock in the morning."

"It was half-past ten; he was in a great hurry; he goes awaythis evening."

"Couldn't he have come yesterday, at the usual time?""He only arrived last night.""He spends but twenty-four hours in Florence?" Mrs.

Touchett cried. "He's an American gentleman truly.""He is indeed," said Isabel, thinking with perverse admiration

of what Caspar Goodwood had done for her.Two days afterward Ralph arrived; but though Isabel was

sure that Mrs. Touchett had lost no time in imparting to him

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the great fact, he showed at first no open knowledge of it.Their prompted talk was naturally of his health; Isabel hadmany questions to ask about Corfu. She had been shocked byhis appearance when he came into the room; she had forgottenhow ill he looked. In spite of Corfu he looked very ill to-day,and she wondered if he were really worse or if she were simplydisaccustomed to living with an invalid. Poor Ralph made nonearer approach to conventional beauty as he advanced in life,and the now apparently complete loss of his health had donelittle to mitigate the natural oddity of his person. Blighted andbattered, but still responsive and still ironic, his face was like alighted lantern patched with paper and unsteadily held; histhin whisker languished upon a lean cheek; the exorbitantcurve of his nose defined itself more sharply. Lean he was alto-gether, lean and long and loose-jointed; an accidental cohesionof relaxed angles. His brown velvet jacket had become perenni-al; his hands had fixed themselves in his pockets; he shambledand stumbled and shuffled in a manner that denoted greatphysical helplessness. It was perhaps this whimsical gait thathelped to mark his character more than ever as that of the hu-morous invalid—the invalid for whom even his own disabilitiesare part of the general joke. They might well indeed with Ralphhave been the chief cause of the want of seriousness markinghis view of a world in which the reason for his own continuedpresence was past finding out. Isabel had grown fond of hisugliness; his awkwardness had become dear to her. They hadbeen sweetened by association; they struck her as the veryterms on which it had been given him to be charming. He wasso charming that her sense of his being ill had hitherto had asort of comfort in it; the state of his health had seemed not alimitation, but a kind of intellectual advantage; it absolved himfrom all professional and official emotions and left him the lux-ury of being exclusively personal. The personality so resultingwas delightful; he had remained proof against the staleness ofdisease; he had had to consent to be deplorably ill, yet hadsomehow escaped being formally sick. Such had been the girl'simpression of her cousin; and when she had pitied him it wasonly on reflection. As she reflected a good deal she had allowedhim a certain amount of compassion; but she always had adread of wasting that essence—a precious article, worth more

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to the giver than to any one else. Now, however, it took nogreat sensibility to feel that poor Ralph's tenure of life was lesselastic than it should be. He was a bright, free, generous spirit,he had all the illumination of wisdom and none of its pedantry,and yet he was distressfully dying.

Isabel noted afresh that life was certainly hard for somepeople, and she felt a delicate glow of shame as she thoughthow easy it now promised to become for herself. She was pre-pared to learn that Ralph was not pleased with her engage-ment; but she was not prepared, in spite of her affection forhim, to let this fact spoil the situation. She was not even pre-pared, or so she thought, to resent his want of sympathy; for itwould be his privilege—it would be indeed his natural line—tofind fault with any step she might take toward marriage. One'scousin always pretended to hate one's husband; that was tradi-tional, classical; it was a part of one's cousin's always pretend-ing to adore one. Ralph was nothing if not critical; and thoughshe would certainly, other things being equal, have been asglad to marry to please him as to please any one, it would beabsurd to regard as important that her choice should squarewith his views. What were his views after all? He had preten-ded to believe she had better have married Lord Warburton;but this was only because she had refused that excellent man.If she had accepted him Ralph would certainly have taken an-other tone; he always took the opposite. You could criticise anymarriage; it was the essence of a marriage to be open to criti-cism. How well she herself, should she only give her mind to it,might criticise this union of her own! She had other employ-ment, however, and Ralph was welcome to relieve her of thecare. Isabel was prepared to be most patient and most indul-gent. He must have seen that, and this made it the more oddhe should say nothing. After three days had elapsed without hisspeaking our young woman wearied of waiting; dislike it as hewould, he might at least go through the form. We, who knowmore about poor Ralph than his cousin, may easily believe thatduring the hours that followed his arrival at Palazzo Cres-centini he had privately gone through many forms. His motherhad literally greeted him with the great news, which had beeneven more sensibly chilling than Mrs. Touchett's maternal kiss.Ralph was shocked and humiliated; his calculations had been

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false and the person in the world in whom he was most inter-ested was lost. He drifted about the house like a rudderlessvessel in a rocky stream, or sat in the garden of the palace on agreat cane chair, his long legs extended, his head thrown backand his hat pulled over his eyes. He felt cold about the heart;he had never liked anything less. What could he do, what couldhe say? If the girl were irreclaimable could he pretend to likeit? To attempt to reclaim her was permissible only if the at-tempt should succeed. To try to persuade her of anything sor-did or sinister in the man to whose deep art she had suc-cumbed would be decently discreet only in the event of her be-ing persuaded. Otherwise he should simply have damned him-self. It cost him an equal effort to speak his thought and to dis-semble; he could neither assent with sincerity nor protest withhope. Meanwhile he knew—or rather he supposed—that the af-fianced pair were daily renewing their mutual vows. Osmond atthis moment showed himself little at Palazzo Crescentini; butIsabel met him every day elsewhere, as she was free to do aftertheir engagement had been made public. She had taken a car-riage by the month, so as not to be indebted to her aunt for themeans of pursuing a course of which Mrs. Touchett disap-proved, and she drove in the morning to the Cascine. This sub-urban wilderness, during the early hours, was void of all in-truders, and our young lady, joined by her lover in its quietestpart, strolled with him a while through the grey Italian shadeand listened to the nightingales.

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Chapter 34One morning, on her return from her drive, some half-hour be-fore luncheon, she quitted her vehicle in the court of thepalace and, instead of ascending the great staircase, crossedthe court, passed beneath another archway and entered thegarden. A sweeter spot at this moment could not have beenimagined. The stillness of noontide hung over it, and the warmshade, enclosed and still, made bowers like spacious caves.Ralph was sitting there in the clear gloom, at the base of astatue of Terpsichore—a dancing nymph with taper fingers andinflated draperies in the manner of Bernini; the extreme relax-ation of his attitude suggested at first to Isabel that he wasasleep. Her light footstep on the grass had not roused him, andbefore turning away she stood for a moment looking at him.During this instant he opened his eyes; upon which she satdown on a rustic chair that matched with his own. Though inher irritation she had accused him of indifference she was notblind to the fact that he had visibly had something to broodover. But she had explained his air of absence partly by thelanguor of his increased weakness, partly by worries connectedwith the property inherited from his father—the fruit of eccent-ric arrangements of which Mrs. Touchett disapproved andwhich, as she had told Isabel, now encountered oppositionfrom the other partners in the bank. He ought to have gone toEngland, his mother said, instead of coming to Florence; hehad not been there for months, and took no more interest inthe bank than in the state of Patagonia.

"I'm sorry I waked you," Isabel said; "you look too tired.""I feel too tired. But I was not asleep. I was thinking of you.""Are you tired of that?""Very much so. It leads to nothing. The road's long and I nev-

er arrive."

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"What do you wish to arrive at?" she put to him, closing herparasol.

"At the point of expressing to myself properly what I think ofyour engagement."

"Don't think too much of it," she lightly returned."Do you mean that it's none of my business?""Beyond a certain point, yes.""That's the point I want to fix. I had an idea you may have

found me wanting in good manners. I've never congratulatedyou."

"Of course I've noticed that. I wondered why you weresilent."

"There have been a good many reasons. I'll tell you now,"Ralph said. He pulled off his hat and laid it on the ground; thenhe sat looking at her. He leaned back under the protection ofBernini, his head against his marble pedestal, his armsdropped on either side of him, his hands laid upon the rests ofhis wide chair. He looked awkward, uncomfortable; he hesit-ated long. Isabel said nothing; when people were embarrassedshe was usually sorry for them, but she was determined not tohelp Ralph to utter a word that should not be to the honour ofher high decision. "I think I've hardly got over my surprise," hewent on at last. "You were the last person I expected to seecaught."

"I don't know why you call it caught.""Because you're going to be put into a cage.""If I like my cage, that needn't trouble you," she answered."That's what I wonder at; that's what I've been thinking of.""If you've been thinking you may imagine how I've thought!

I'm satisfied that I'm doing well.""You must have changed immensely. A year ago you valued

your liberty beyond everything. You wanted only to see life.""I've seen it," said Isabel. "It doesn't look to me now, I admit,

such an inviting expanse.""I don't pretend it is; only I had an idea that you took a genial

view of it and wanted to survey the whole field.""I've seen that one can't do anything so general. One must

choose a corner and cultivate that.""That's what I think. And one must choose as good a corner

as possible. I had no idea, all winter, while I read your

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delightful letters, that you were choosing. You said nothingabout it, and your silence put me off my guard."

"It was not a matter I was likely to write to you about.Besides, I knew nothing of the future. It has all come lately. Ifyou had been on your guard, however," Isabel asked, "whatwould you have done?"

"I should have said 'Wait a little longer.'""Wait for what?""Well, for a little more light," said Ralph with rather an ab-

surd smile, while his hands found their way into his pockets."Where should my light have come from? From you?""I might have struck a spark or two."Isabel had drawn off her gloves; she smoothed them out as

they lay upon her knee. The mildness of this movement was ac-cidental, for her expression was not conciliatory. "You're beat-ing about the bush, Ralph. You wish to say you don't like Mr.Osmond, and yet you're afraid."

"Willing to wound and yet afraid to strike? I'm willing towound HIM, yes—but not to wound you. I'm afraid of you, notof him. If you marry him it won't be a fortunate way for me tohave spoken."

"IF I marry him! Have you had any expectation of dissuadingme?"

"Of course that seems to you too fatuous.""No," said Isabel after a little; "it seems to me too touching.""That's the same thing. It makes me so ridiculous that you

pity me."She stroked out her long gloves again. "I know you've a great

affection for me. I can't get rid of that.""For heaven's sake don't try. Keep that well in sight. It will

convince you how intensely I want you to do well.""And how little you trust me!"There was a moment's silence; the warm noontide seemed to

listen. "I trust you, but I don't trust him," said Ralph.She raised her eyes and gave him a wide, deep look. "You've

said it now, and I'm glad you've made it so clear. But you'll suf-fer by it."

"Not if you're just.""I'm very just," said Isabel. "What better proof of it can there

be than that I'm not angry with you? I don't know what's the

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matter with me, but I'm not. I was when you began, but it haspassed away. Perhaps I ought to be angry, but Mr. Osmondwouldn't think so. He wants me to know everything; that'swhat I like him for. You've nothing to gain, I know that. I'venever been so nice to you, as a girl, that you should have muchreason for wishing me to remain one. You give very good ad-vice; you've often done so. No, I'm very quiet; I've always be-lieved in your wisdom," she went on, boasting of her quietness,yet speaking with a kind of contained exaltation. It was herpassionate desire to be just; it touched Ralph to the heart, af-fected him like a caress from a creature he had injured. Hewished to interrupt, to reassure her; for a moment he was ab-surdly inconsistent; he would have retracted what he had said.But she gave him no chance; she went on, having caught aglimpse, as she thought, of the heroic line and desiring to ad-vance in that direction. "I see you've some special idea; Ishould like very much to hear it. I'm sure it's disinterested; Ifeel that. It seems a strange thing to argue about, and ofcourse I ought to tell you definitely that if you expect to dis-suade me you may give it up. You'll not move me an inch; it'stoo late. As you say, I'm caught. Certainly it won't be pleasantfor you to remember this, but your pain will be in your ownthoughts. I shall never reproach you."

"I don't think you ever will," said Ralph. "It's not in the leastthe sort of marriage I thought you'd make."

"What sort of marriage was that, pray?""Well, I can hardly say. I hadn't exactly a positive view of it,

but I had a negative. I didn't think you'd decide for—well, forthat type."

"What's the matter with Mr. Osmond's type, if it be one? Hisbeing so independent, so individual, is what I most see in him,"the girl declared. "What do you know against him? You knowhim scarcely at all."

"Yes," Ralph said, "I know him very little, and I confess Ihaven't facts and items to prove him a villain. But all the sameI can't help feeling that you're running a grave risk."

"Marriage is always a grave risk, and his risk's as grave asmine."

"That's his affair! If he's afraid, let him back out. I wish toGod he would."

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Isabel reclined in her chair, folding her arms and gazing awhile at her cousin. "I don't think I understand you," she saidat last coldly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I believed you'd marry a man of more importance."Cold, I say, her tone had been, but at this a colour like a

flame leaped into her face. "Of more importance to whom? Itseems to me enough that one's husband should be of import-ance to one's self!"

Ralph blushed as well; his attitude embarrassed him. Physic-ally speaking he proceeded to change it; he straightened him-self, then leaned forward, resting a hand on each knee. Hefixed his eyes on the ground; he had an air of the most respect-ful deliberation.

"I'll tell you in a moment what I mean," he presently said. Hefelt agitated, intensely eager; now that he had opened the dis-cussion he wished to discharge his mind. But he wished also tobe superlatively gentle.

Isabel waited a little—then she went on with majesty. "Ineverything that makes one care for people Mr. Osmond is pre-eminent. There may be nobler natures, but I've never had thepleasure of meeting one. Mr. Osmond's is the finest I know;he's good enough for me, and interesting enough, and cleverenough. I'm far more struck with what he has and what he rep-resents than with what he may lack."

"I had treated myself to a charming vision of your future,"Ralph observed without answering this; "I had amused myselfwith planning out a high destiny for you. There was to be noth-ing of this sort in it. You were not to come down so easily or sosoon."

"Come down, you say?""Well, that renders my sense of what has happened to you.

You seemed to me to be soaring far up in the blue—to be, sail-ing in the bright light, over the heads of men. Suddenly someone tosses up a faded rosebud—a missile that should neverhave reached you—and straight you drop to the ground. Ithurts me," said Ralph audaciously, "hurts me as if I had fallenmyself!"

The look of pain and bewilderment deepened in hiscompanion's face. "I don't understand you in the least," she re-peated. "You say you amused yourself with a project for my

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career—I don't understand that. Don't amuse yourself toomuch, or I shall think you're doing it at my expense."

Ralph shook his head. "I'm not afraid of your not believingthat I've had great ideas for you."

"What do you mean by my soaring and sailing?" she pursued."I've never moved on a higher plane than I'm moving on now.

There's nothing higher for a girl than to marry a—a person shelikes," said poor Isabel, wandering into the didactic.

"It's your liking the person we speak of that I venture to criti-cise, my dear cousin. I should have said that the man for youwould have been a more active, larger, freer sort of nature."Ralph hesitated, then added: "I can't get over the sense thatOsmond is somehow—well, small." He had uttered the lastword with no great assurance; he was afraid she would flashout again. But to his surprise she was quiet; she had the air ofconsidering.

"Small?" She made it sound immense."I think he's narrow, selfish. He takes himself so seriously!""He has a great respect for himself; I don't blame him for

that," said Isabel. "It makes one more sure to respect others."Ralph for a moment felt almost reassured by her reasonable

tone."Yes, but everything is relative; one ought to feel one's rela-

tion to things—to others. I don't think Mr. Osmond does that.""I've chiefly to do with his relation to me. In that he's

excellent.""He's the incarnation of taste," Ralph went on, thinking hard

how he could best express Gilbert Osmond's sinister attributeswithout putting himself in the wrong by seeming to describehim coarsely. He wished to describe him impersonally, scien-tifically. "He judges and measures, approves and condemns, al-together by that."

"It's a happy thing then that his taste should be exquisite.""It's exquisite, indeed, since it has led him to select you as

his bride. But have you ever seen such a taste—a really exquis-ite one—ruffled?"

"I hope it may never be my fortune to fail to gratify myhusband's."

At these words a sudden passion leaped to Ralph's lips. "Ah,that's wilful, that's unworthy of you! You were not meant to be

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measured in that way—you were meant for something betterthan to keep guard over the sensibilities of a sterile dilettante!"

Isabel rose quickly and he did the same, so that they stoodfor a moment looking at each other as if he had flung down adefiance or an insult. But "You go too far," she simplybreathed.

"I've said what I had on my mind—and I've said it because Ilove you!"

Isabel turned pale: was he too on that tiresome list? She hada sudden wish to strike him off. "Ah then, you're notdisinterested!"

"I love you, but I love without hope," said Ralph quickly, for-cing a smile and feeling that in that last declaration he had ex-pressed more than he intended.

Isabel moved away and stood looking into the sunny stillnessof the garden; but after a little she turned back to him. "I'mafraid your talk then is the wildness of despair! I don't under-stand it —but it doesn't matter. I'm not arguing with you; it'simpossible I should; I've only tried to listen to you. I'm muchobliged to you for attempting to explain," she said gently, as ifthe anger with which she had just sprung up had already sub-sided. "It's very good of you to try to warn me, if you're reallyalarmed; but I won't promise to think of what you've said: Ishall forget it as soon as possible. Try and forget it yourself;you've done your duty, and no man can do more. I can't explainto you what I feel, what I believe, and I wouldn't if I could." Shepaused a moment and then went on with an inconsequencethat Ralph observed even in the midst of his eagerness to dis-cover some symptom of concession. "I can't enter into youridea of Mr. Osmond; I can't do it justice, because I see him inquite another way. He's not important—no, he's not important;he's a man to whom importance is supremely indifferent. Ifthat's what you mean when you call him 'small,' then he's assmall as you please. I call that large—it's the largest thing Iknow. I won't pretend to argue with you about a person I'm go-ing to marry," Isabel repeated. "I'm not in the least concernedto defend Mr. Osmond; he's not so weak as to need my de-fence. I should think it would seem strange even to yourselfthat I should talk of him so quietly and coldly, as if he were anyone else. I wouldn't talk of him at all to any one but you; and

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you, after what you've said—I may just answer you once for all.Pray, would you wish me to make a mercenary marriage—whatthey call a marriage of ambition? I've only one ambition—to befree to follow out a good feeling. I had others once, but they'vepassed away. Do you complain of Mr. Osmond because he's notrich? That's just what I like him for. I've fortunately moneyenough; I've never felt so thankful for it as to-day. There havebeen moments when I should like to go and kneel down by yourfather's grave: he did perhaps a better thing than he knewwhen he put it into my power to marry a poor man—a man whohas borne his poverty with such dignity, with such indifference.Mr. Osmond has never scrambled nor struggled—he has caredfor no worldly prize. If that's to be narrow, if that's to beselfish, then it's very well. I'm not frightened by such words,I'm not even displeased; I'm only sorry that you should make amistake. Others might have done so, but I'm surprised that youshould. You might know a gentleman when you see one—youmight know a fine mind. Mr. Osmond makes no mistakes! Heknows everything, he understands everything, he has the kind-est, gentlest, highest spirit. You've got hold of some false idea.It's a pity, but I can't help it; it regards you more than me." Isa-bel paused a moment, looking at her cousin with an eye il-lumined by a sentiment which contradicted the carefulcalmness of her manner—a mingled sentiment, to which theangry pain excited by his words and the wounded pride of hav-ing needed to justify a choice of which she felt only the noble-ness and purity, equally contributed. Though she paused Ralphsaid nothing; he saw she had more to say. She was grand, butshe was highly solicitous; she was indifferent, but she was allin a passion. "What sort of a person should you have liked meto marry?" she asked suddenly. "You talk about one's soaringand sailing, but if one marries at all one touches the earth. Onehas human feelings and needs, one has a heart in one's bosom,and one must marry a particular individual. Your mother hasnever forgiven me for not having come to a better understand-ing with Lord Warburton, and she's horrified at my contentingmyself with a person who has none of his great advantages—noproperty, no title, no honours, no houses, nor lands, nor posi-tion, nor reputation, nor brilliant belongings of any sort. It'sthe total absence of all these things that pleases me. Mr.

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Osmond's simply a very lonely, a very cultivated and a veryhonest man—he's not a prodigious proprietor."

Ralph had listened with great attention, as if everything shesaid merited deep consideration; but in truth he was only halfthinking of the things she said, he was for the rest simply ac-commodating himself to the weight of his total impression—theimpression of her ardent good faith. She was wrong, but shebelieved; she was deluded, but she was dismally consistent. Itwas wonderfully characteristic of her that, having invented afine theory, about Gilbert Osmond, she loved him not for whathe really possessed, but for his very poverties dressed out ashonours. Ralph remembered what he had said to his fatherabout wishing to put it into her power to meet the require-ments of her imagination. He had done so, and the girl hadtaken full advantage of the luxury. Poor Ralph felt sick; he feltashamed. Isabel had uttered her last words with a low solem-nity of conviction which virtually terminated the discussion,and she closed it formally by turning away and walking back tothe house. Ralph walked beside her, and they passed into thecourt together and reached the big staircase. Here he stoppedand Isabel paused, turning on him a face of elation—absolutelyand perversely of gratitude. His opposition had made her ownconception of her conduct clearer to her. "Shall you not comeup to breakfast?" she asked.

"No; I want no breakfast; I'm not hungry.""You ought to eat," said the girl; "you live on air.""I do, very much, and I shall go back into the garden and

take another mouthful. I came thus far simply to say this. I toldyou last year that if you were to get into trouble I should feelterribly sold. That's how I feel to-day."

"Do you think I'm in trouble?""One's in trouble when one's in error.""Very well," said Isabel; "I shall never complain of my trouble

to you!" And she moved up the staircase.Ralph, standing there with his hands in his pockets, followed

her with his eyes; then the lurking chill of the high-walledcourt struck him and made him shiver, so that he returned tothe garden to breakfast on the Florentine sunshine.

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Chapter 35Isabel, when she strolled in the Cascine with her lover, felt noimpulse to tell him how little he was approved at Palazzo Cres-centini. The discreet opposition offered to her marriage by heraunt and her cousin made on the whole no great impressionupon her; the moral of it was simply that they disliked GilbertOsmond. This dislike was not alarming to Isabel; she scarcelyeven regretted it; for it served mainly to throw into higher re-lief the fact, in every way so honourable, that she married toplease herself. One did other things to please other people; onedid this for a more personal satisfaction; and Isabel's satisfac-tion was confirmed by her lover's admirable good conduct. Gil-bert Osmond was in love, and he had never deserved less thanduring these still, bright days, each of them numbered, whichpreceded the fulfilment of his hopes, the harsh criticism passedupon him by Ralph Touchett. The chief impression produced onIsabel's spirit by this criticism was that the passion of love sep-arated its victim terribly from every one but the loved object.She felt herself disjoined from every one she had ever knownbefore—from her two sisters, who wrote to express a dutifulhope that she would be happy, and a surprise, somewhat morevague, at her not having chosen a consort who was the hero ofa richer accumulation of anecdote; from Henrietta, who, shewas sure, would come out, too late, on purpose to remonstrate;from Lord Warburton, who would certainly console himself,and from Caspar Goodwood, who perhaps would not; from heraunt, who had cold, shallow ideas about marriage, for whichshe was not sorry to display her contempt; and from Ralph,whose talk about having great views for her was surely but awhimsical cover for a personal disappointment. Ralph appar-ently wished her not to marry at all—that was what it reallymeant—because he was amused with the spectacle of her ad-ventures as a single woman. His disappointment made him say

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angry things about the man she had preferred even to him: Isa-bel flattered herself that she believed Ralph had been angry. Itwas the more easy for her to believe this because, as I say, shehad now little free or unemployed emotion for minor needs,and accepted as an incident, in fact quite as an ornament, ofher lot the idea that to prefer Gilbert Osmond as she preferredhim was perforce to break all other ties. She tasted of thesweets of this preference, and they made her conscious, almostwith awe, of the invidious and remorseless tide of the charmedand possessed condition, great as was the traditional honourand imputed virtue of being in love. It was the tragic part ofhappiness; one's right was always made of the wrong of someone else.

The elation of success, which surely now flamed high in Os-mond, emitted meanwhile very little smoke for so brilliant ablaze. Contentment, on his part, took no vulgar form; excite-ment, in the most self-conscious of men, was a kind of ecstasyof self-control. This disposition, however, made him an admir-able lover; it gave him a constant view of the smitten and ded-icated state. He never forgot himself, as I say; and so he neverforgot to be graceful and tender, to wear the appear-ance—which presented indeed no difficulty—of stirred sensesand deep intentions. He was immensely pleased with his younglady; Madame Merle had made him a present of incalculablevalue. What could be a finer thing to live with than a high spiritattuned to softness? For would not the softness be all for one'sself, and the strenuousness for society, which admired the airof superiority? What could be a happier gift in a companionthan a quick, fanciful mind which saved one repetitions and re-flected one's thought on a polished, elegant surface? Osmondhated to see his thought reproduced literally— that made itlook stale and stupid; he preferred it to be freshened in the re-production even as "words" by music. His egotism had nevertaken the crude form of desiring a dull wife; this lady's intelli-gence was to be a silver plate, not an earthen one—a plate thathe might heap up with ripe fruits, to which it would give a dec-orative value, so that talk might become for him a sort ofserved dessert. He found the silver quality in this perfection inIsabel; he could tap her imagination with his knuckle and makeit ring. He knew perfectly, though he had not been told, that

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their union enjoyed little favour with the girl's relations; but hehad always treated her so completely as an independent per-son that it hardly seemed necessary to express regret for theattitude of her family. Nevertheless, one morning, he made anabrupt allusion to it. "It's the difference in our fortune theydon't like," he said. "They think I'm in love with your money."

"Are you speaking of my aunt—of my cousin?" Isabel asked."How do you know what they think?"

"You've not told me they're pleased, and when I wrote toMrs. Touchett the other day she never answered my note. Ifthey had been delighted I should have had some sign of it, andthe fact of my being poor and you rich is the most obvious ex-planation of their reserve. But of course when a poor man mar-ries a rich girl he must be prepared for imputations. I don'tmind them; I only care for one thing—for your not having theshadow of a doubt. I don't care what people of whom I asknothing think—I'm not even capable perhaps of wanting toknow. I've never so concerned myself, God forgive me, and whyshould I begin to-day, when I have taken to myself a compensa-tion for everything? I won't pretend I'm sorry you're rich; I'mdelighted. I delight in everything that's yours—whether it bemoney or virtue. Money's a horrid thing to follow, but a charm-ing thing to meet. It seems to me, however, that I've suffi-ciently proved the limits of my itch for it: I never in my lifetried to earn a penny, and I ought to be less subject to suspi-cion than most of the people one sees grubbing and grabbing. Isuppose it's their business to suspect—that of your family; it'sproper on the whole they should. They'll like me better someday; so will you, for that matter. Meanwhile my business is notto make myself bad blood, but simply to be thankful for life andlove." "It has made me better, loving you," he said on anotheroccasion; "it has made me wiser and easier and—I won't pre-tend to deny—brighter and nicer and even stronger. I used towant a great many things before and to be angry I didn't havethem. Theoretically I was satisfied, as I once told you. Iflattered myself I had limited my wants. But I was subject to ir-ritation; I used to have morbid, sterile, hateful fits of hunger, ofdesire. Now I'm really satisfied, because I can't think of any-thing better. It's just as when one has been trying to spell out abook in the twilight and suddenly the lamp comes in. I had

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been putting out my eyes over the book of life and finding noth-ing to reward me for my pains; but now that I can read it prop-erly I see it's a delightful story. My dear girl, I can't tell youhow life seems to stretch there before us—what a long summerafternoon awaits us. It's the latter half of an Italian day —witha golden haze, and the shadows just lengthening, and that di-vine delicacy in the light, the air, the landscape, which I haveloved all my life and which you love to-day. Upon my honour, Idon't see why we shouldn't get on. We've got what we like—tosay nothing of having each other. We've the faculty of admira-tion and several capital convictions. We're not stupid, we're notmean, we're not under bonds to any kind of ignorance or drear-iness. You're remarkably fresh, and I'm remarkably well-seasoned. We've my poor child to amuse us; we'll try and makeup some little life for her. It's all soft and mellow—it has theItalian colouring."

They made a good many plans, but they left themselves alsoa good deal of latitude; it was a matter of course, however, thatthey should live for the present in Italy. It was in Italy that theyhad met, Italy had been a party to their first impressions ofeach other, and Italy should be a party to their happiness. Os-mond had the attachment of old acquaintance and Isabel thestimulus of new, which seemed to assure her a future at a highlevel of consciousness of the beautiful. The desire for unlimitedexpansion had been succeeded in her soul by the sense that lifewas vacant without some private duty that might gather one'senergies to a point. She had told Ralph she had "seen life" in ayear or two and that she was already tired, not of the act of liv-ing, but of that of observing. What had become of all her ar-dours, her aspirations, her theories, her high estimate of herindependence and her incipient conviction that she should nev-er marry? These things had been absorbed in a more primitiveneed— a need the answer to which brushed away numberlessquestions, yet gratified infinite desires. It simplified the situ-ation at a stroke, it came down from above like the light of thestars, and it needed no explanation. There was explanationenough in the fact that he was her lover, her own, and that sheshould be able to be of use to him. She could surrender to himwith a kind of humility, she could marry him with a kind ofpride; she was not only taking, she was giving.

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He brought Pansy with him two or three times to the Cas-cine— Pansy who was very little taller than a year before, andnot much older. That she would always be a child was the con-viction expressed by her father, who held her by the handwhen she was in her sixteenth year and told her to go and playwhile he sat down a little with the pretty lady. Pansy wore ashort dress and a long coat; her hat always seemed too big forher. She found pleasure in walking off, with quick, short steps,to the end of the alley, and then in walking back with a smilethat seemed an appeal for approbation. Isabel approved inabundance, and the abundance had the personal touch that thechild's affectionate nature craved. She watched her indicationsas if for herself also much depended on them—Pansy alreadyso represented part of the service she could render, part of theresponsibility she could face. Her father took so the childishview of her that he had not yet explained to her the new rela-tion in which he stood to the elegant Miss Archer. "She doesn'tknow," he said to Isabel; "she doesn't guess; she thinks it per-fectly natural that you and I should come and walk here togeth-er simply as good friends. There seems to me something en-chantingly innocent in that; it's the way I like her to be. No, I'mnot a failure, as I used to think; I've succeeded in two things.I'm to marry the woman I adore, and I've brought up my child,as I wished, in the old way."

He was very fond, in all things, of the "old way"; that hadstruck Isabel as one of his fine, quiet, sincere notes. "It occursto me that you'll not know whether you've succeeded untilyou've told her," she said. "You must see how she takes yournews, She may be horrified—she may be jealous."

"I'm not afraid of that; she's too fond of you on her own ac-count. I should like to leave her in the dark a little longer —tosee if it will come into her head that if we're not engaged weought to be."

Isabel was impressed by Osmond's artistic, the plastic view,as it somehow appeared, of Pansy's innocence—her own appre-ciation of it being more anxiously moral. She was perhaps notthe less pleased when he told her a few days later that he hadcommunicated the fact to his daughter, who had made such apretty little speech—"Oh, then I shall have a beautiful sister!"

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She was neither surprised nor alarmed; she had not cried, ashe expected.

"Perhaps she had guessed it," said Isabel."Don't say that; I should be disgusted if I believed that. I

thought it would be just a little shock; but the way she took itproves that her good manners are paramount. That's also whatI wished. You shall see for yourself; to-morrow she shall makeyou her congratulations in person."

The meeting, on the morrow, took place at the CountessGemini's, whither Pansy had been conducted by her father,who knew that Isabel was to come in the afternoon to return avisit made her by the Countess on learning that they were tobecome sisters-in-law. Calling at Casa Touchett the visitor hadnot found Isabel at home; but after our young woman had beenushered into the Countess's drawing-room Pansy arrived to saythat her aunt would presently appear. Pansy was spending theday with that lady, who thought her of an age to begin to learnhow to carry herself in company. It was Isabel's view that thelittle girl might have given lessons in deportment to her relat-ive, and nothing could have justified this conviction more thanthe manner in which Pansy acquitted herself while they waitedtogether for the Countess. Her father's decision, the year be-fore, had finally been to send her back to the convent to re-ceive the last graces, and Madame Catherine had evidentlycarried out her theory that Pansy was to be fitted for the greatworld.

"Papa has told me that you've kindly consented to marryhim," said this excellent woman's pupil. "It's very delightful; Ithink you'll suit very well."

"You think I shall suit YOU?""You'll suit me beautifully; but what I mean is that you and

papa will suit each other. You're both so quiet and so serious.You're not so quiet as he—or even as Madame Merle; butyou're more quiet than many others. He should not for instancehave a wife like my aunt. She's always in motion, inagitation—to-day especially; you'll see when she comes in.They told us at the convent it was wrong to judge our elders,but I suppose there's no harm if we judge them favourably.You'll be a delightful companion for papa."

"For you too, I hope," Isabel said.

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"I speak first of him on purpose. I've told you already what Imyself think of you; I liked you from the first. I admire you somuch that I think it will be a good fortune to have you alwaysbefore me. You'll be my model; I shall try to imitate you thoughI'm afraid it will be very feeble. I'm very glad for papa—heneeded something more than me. Without you I don't see howhe could have got it. You'll be my stepmother, but we mustn'tuse that word. They're always said to be cruel; but I don't thinkyou'll ever so much as pinch or even push me. I'm not afraid atall."

"My good little Pansy," said Isabel gently, "I shall be ever sokind to you." A vague, inconsequent vision of her coming insome odd way to need it had intervened with the effect of achill.

"Very well then, I've nothing to fear," the child returned withher note of prepared promptitude. What teaching she had had,it seemed to suggest—or what penalties for non-performanceshe dreaded!

Her description of her aunt had not been incorrect; theCountess Gemini was further than ever from having folded herwings. She entered the room with a flutter through the air andkissed Isabel first on the forehead and then on each cheek as ifaccording to some ancient prescribed rite. She drew the visitorto a sofa and, looking at her with a variety of turns of the head,began to talk very much as if, seated brush in hand before aneasel, she were applying a series of considered touches to acomposition of figures already sketched in. "If you expect meto congratulate you I must beg you to excuse me. I don't sup-pose you care if I do or not; I believe you're supposed not tocare—through being so clever—for all sorts of ordinary things.But I care myself if I tell fibs; I never tell them unless there'ssomething rather good to be gained. I don't see what's to begained with you— especially as you wouldn't believe me. Idon't make professions any more than I make paper flowers orflouncey lampshades—I don't know how. My lampshades wouldbe sure to take fire, my roses and my fibs to be larger than life.I'm very glad for my own sake that you're to marry Osmond;but I won't pretend I'm glad for yours. You're very bril-liant—you know that's the way you're always spoken of; you'rean heiress and very good-looking and original, not banal; so it's

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a good thing to have you in the family. Our family's very good,you know; Osmond will have told you that; and my mother wasrather distinguished—she was called the American Corinne.But we're dreadfully fallen, I think, and perhaps you'll pick usup. I've great confidence in you; there are ever so many thingsI want to talk to you about. I never congratulate any girl onmarrying; I think they ought to make it somehow not quite soawful a steel trap. I suppose Pansy oughtn't to hear all this; butthat's what she has come to me for —to acquire the tone of so-ciety. There's no harm in her knowing what horrors she may bein for. When first I got an idea that my brother had designs onyou I thought of writing to you, to recommend you, in thestrongest terms, not to listen to him. Then I thought it wouldbe disloyal, and I hate anything of that kind. Besides, as I say, Iwas enchanted for myself; and after all I'm very selfish. By theway, you won't respect me, not one little mite, and we shallnever be intimate. I should like it, but you won't. Some day, allthe same, we shall be better friends than you will believe atfirst. My husband will come and see you, though, as you prob-ably know, he's on no sort of terms with Osmond. He's veryfond of going to see pretty women, but I'm not afraid of you. Inthe first place I don't care what he does. In the second, youwon't care a straw for him; he won't be a bit, at any time, youraffair, and, stupid as he is, he'll see you're not his. Some day, ifyou can stand it, I'll tell you all about him. Do you think myniece ought to go out of the room? Pansy, go and practise alittle in my boudoir."

"Let her stay, please," said Isabel. "I would rather hear noth-ing that Pansy may not!"

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Chapter 36One afternoon of the autumn of 1876, toward dusk, a youngman of pleasing appearance rang at the door of a small apart-ment on the third floor of an old Roman house. On its beingopened he enquired for Madame Merle; whereupon the ser-vant, a neat, plain woman, with a French face and a lady'smaid's manner, ushered him into a diminutive drawing-roomand requested the favour of his name. "Mr. Edward Rosier,"said the young man, who sat down to wait till his hostessshould appear.

The reader will perhaps not have forgotten that Mr. Rosierwas an ornament of the American circle in Paris, but it mayalso be remembered that he sometimes vanished from its hori-zon. He had spent a portion of several winters at Pau, and ashe was a gentleman of constituted habits he might have contin-ued for years to pay his annual visit to this charming resort. Inthe summer of 1876, however, an incident befell him whichchanged the current not only of his thoughts, but of his cus-tomary sequences. He passed a month in the Upper Engadineand encountered at Saint Moritz a charming young girl. To thislittle person he began to pay, on the spot, particular attention:she struck him as exactly the household angel he had longbeen looking for. He was never precipitate, he was nothing ifnot discreet, so he forbore for the present to declare his pas-sion; but it seemed to him when they parted—the young lady togo down into Italy and her admirer to proceed to Geneva,where he was under bonds to join other friends—that he shouldbe romantically wretched if he were not to see her again. Thesimplest way to do so was to go in the autumn to Rome, whereMiss Osmond was domiciled with her family. Mr. Rosier startedon his pilgrimage to the Italian capital and reached it on thefirst of November. It was a pleasant thing to do, but for theyoung man there was a strain of the heroic in the enterprise.

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He might expose himself, unseasoned, to the poison of the Ro-man air, which in November lay, notoriously, much in wait.Fortune, however, favours the brave; and this adventurer, whotook three grains of quinine a day, had at the end of a monthno cause to deplore his temerity. He had made to a certain ex-tent good use of his time; he had devoted it in vain to finding aflaw in Pansy Osmond's composition. She was admirably fin-ished; she had had the last touch; she was really a consummatepiece. He thought of her in amorous meditation a good deal ashe might have thought of a Dresden-china shepherdess. MissOsmond, indeed, in the bloom of her juvenility, had a hint ofthe rococo which Rosier, whose taste was predominantly forthat manner, could not fail to appreciate. That he esteemed theproductions of comparatively frivolous periods would havebeen apparent from the attention he bestowed upon MadameMerle's drawing-room, which, although furnished with speci-mens of every style, was especially rich in articles of the lasttwo centuries. He had immediately put a glass into one eye andlooked round; and then "By Jove, she has some jolly goodthings!" he had yearningly murmured. The room was small anddensely filled with furniture; it gave an impression of faded silkand little statuettes which might totter if one moved. Rosiergot up and wandered about with his careful tread, bendingover the tables charged with knick-knacks and the cushionsembossed with princely arms. When Madame Merle came inshe found him standing before the fireplace with his nose veryclose to the great lace flounce attached to the damask cover ofthe mantel. He had lifted it delicately, as if he were smelling it.

"It's old Venetian," she said; "it's rather good.""It's too good for this; you ought to wear it.""They tell me you have some better in Paris, in the same

situation.""Ah, but I can't wear mine," smiled the visitor."I don't see why you shouldn't! I've better lace than that to

wear."His eyes wandered, lingeringly, round the room again.

"You've some very good things.""Yes, but I hate them.""Do you want to get rid of them?" the young man quickly

asked.

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"No, it's good to have something to hate: one works it off!""I love my things," said Mr. Rosier as he sat there flushed

with all his recognitions. "But it's not about them, nor aboutyours, that I came to talk to you." He paused a moment andthen, with greater softness: "I care more for Miss Osmond thanfor all the bibelots in Europe!"

Madame Merle opened wide eyes. "Did you come to tell methat?"

"I came to ask your advice."She looked at him with a friendly frown, stroking her chin

with her large white hand. "A man in love, you know, doesn'task advice."

"Why not, if he's in a difficult position? That's often the casewith a man in love. I've been in love before, and I know. Butnever so much as this time—really never so much. I should likeparticularly to know what you think of my prospects. I'm afraidthat for Mr. Osmond I'm not—well, a real collector's piece."

"Do you wish me to intercede?" Madame Merle asked withher fine arms folded and her handsome mouth drawn up to theleft.

"If you could say a good word for me I should be greatly ob-liged. There will be no use in my troubling Miss Osmond unlessI have good reason to believe her father will consent."

"You're very considerate; that's in your favour. But you as-sume in rather an off-hand way that I think you a prize."

"You've been very kind to me," said the young man. "That'swhy I came."

"I'm always kind to people who have good Louis Quatorze.It's very rare now, and there's no telling what one may get byit." With which the left-hand corner of Madame Merle's mouthgave expression to the joke.

But he looked, in spite of it, literally apprehensive and con-sistently strenuous. "Ah, I thought you liked me for myself!"

"I like you very much; but, if you please, we won't analyse.Pardon me if I seem patronising, but I think you a perfect littlegentleman. I must tell you, however, that I've not the marryingof Pansy Osmond."

"I didn't suppose that. But you've seemed to me intimate withher family, and I thought you might have influence."

Madame Merle considered. "Whom do you call her family?"

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"Why, her father; and—how do you say it in English?—herbelle-mere."

"Mr. Osmond's her father, certainly; but his wife can scarcelybe termed a member of her family. Mrs. Osmond has nothingto do with marrying her."

"I'm sorry for that," said Rosier with an amiable sigh of goodfaith. "I think Mrs. Osmond would favour me."

"Very likely—if her husband doesn't."He raised his eyebrows. "Does she take the opposite line

from him?""In everything. They think quite differently.""Well," said Rosier, "I'm sorry for that; but it's none of my

business. She's very fond of Pansy.""Yes, she's very fond of Pansy.""And Pansy has a great affection for her. She has told me

how she loves her as if she were her own mother.""You must, after all, have had some very intimate talk with

the poor child," said Madame Merle. "Have you declared yoursentiments?"

"Never!" cried Rosier, lifting his neatly-gloved hand. "Nevertill I've assured myself of those of the parents."

"You always wait for that? You've excellent principles; youobserve the proprieties."

"I think you're laughing at me," the young man murmured,dropping back in his chair and feeling his small moustache. "Ididn't expect that of you, Madame Merle."

She shook her head calmly, like a person who saw things asshe saw them. "You don't do me justice. I think your conduct inexcellent taste and the best you could adopt. Yes, that's what Ithink."

"I wouldn't agitate her—only to agitate her; I love her toomuch for that," said Ned Rosier.

"I'm glad, after all, that you've told me," Madame Merle wenton. "Leave it to me a little; I think I can help you."

"I said you were the person to come to!" her visitor criedwith prompt elation.

"You were very clever," Madame Merle returned more dryly."When I say I can help you I mean once assuming your cause tobe good. Let us think a little if it is."

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"I'm awfully decent, you know," said Rosier earnestly. "Iwon't say I've no faults, but I'll say I've no vices."

"All that's negative, and it always depends, also, on whatpeople call vices. What's the positive side? What's the virtuous?What have you got besides your Spanish lace and your Dresdenteacups?"

"I've a comfortable little fortune—about forty thousandfrancs a year. With the talent I have for arranging, we can livebeautifully on such an income."

"Beautifully, no. Sufficiently, yes. Even that depends onwhere you live."

"Well, in Paris. I would undertake it in Paris."Madame Merle's mouth rose to the left. "It wouldn't be fam-

ous; you'd have to make use of the teacups, and they'd getbroken."

"We don't want to be famous. If Miss Osmond should haveeverything pretty it would be enough. When one's as pretty asshe one can afford—well, quite cheap faience. She ought neverto wear anything but muslin—without the sprig," said Rosierreflectively.

"Wouldn't you even allow her the sprig? She'd be much ob-liged to you at any rate for that theory."

"It's the correct one, I assure you; and I'm sure she'd enterinto it. She understands all that; that's why I love her."

"She's a very good little girl, and most tidy—also extremelygraceful. But her father, to the best of my belief, can give hernothing."

Rosier scarce demurred. "I don't in the least desire that heshould. But I may remark, all the same, that he lives like a richman."

"The money's his wife's; she brought him a large fortune.""Mrs. Osmond then is very fond of her stepdaughter; she may

do something.""For a love-sick swain you have your eyes about you!" Ma-

dame Merle exclaimed with a laugh."I esteem a dot very much. I can do without it, but I esteem

it.""Mrs. Osmond," Madame Merle went on, "will probably

prefer to keep her money for her own children.""Her own children? Surely she has none."

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"She may have yet. She had a poor little boy, who died twoyears ago, six months after his birth. Others therefore maycome."

"I hope they will, if it will make her happy. She's a splendidwoman."

Madame Merle failed to burst into speech. "Ah, about herthere's much to be said. Splendid as you like! We've not exactlymade out that you're a parti. The absence of vices is hardly asource of income.

"Pardon me, I think it may be," said Rosier quite lucidly."You'll be a touching couple, living on your innocence!""I think you underrate me.""You're not so innocent as that? Seriously," said Madame

Merle, "of course forty thousand francs a year and a nice char-acter are a combination to be considered. I don't say it's to bejumped at, but there might be a worse offer. Mr. Osmond,however, will probably incline to believe he can do better."

"HE can do so perhaps; but what can his daughter do? Shecan't do better than marry the man she loves. For she does,you know," Rosier added eagerly.

"She does—I know it.""Ah," cried the young man, "I said you were the person to

come to.""But I don't know how you know it, if you haven't asked her,"

Madame Merle went on."In such a case there's no need of asking and telling; as you

say, we're an innocent couple. How did YOU know it?""I who am not innocent? By being very crafty. Leave it to me;

I'll find out for you."Rosier got up and stood smoothing his hat. "You say that

rather coldly. Don't simply find out how it is, but try to make itas it should be."

"I'll do my best. I'll try to make the most of your advantages.""Thank you so very much. Meanwhile then I'll say a word to

Mrs. Osmond.""Gardez-vous-en bien!" And Madame Merle was on her feet.

"Don't set her going, or you'll spoil everything."Rosier gazed into his hat; he wondered whether his hostess

HAD been after all the right person to come to. "I don't think I

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understand you. I'm an old friend of Mrs. Osmond, and I thinkshe would like me to succeed."

"Be an old friend as much as you like; the more old friendsshe has the better, for she doesn't get on very well with someof her new. But don't for the present try to make her take upthe cudgels for you. Her husband may have other views, and,as a person who wishes her well, I advise you not to multiplypoints of difference between them."

Poor Rosier's face assumed an expression of alarm; a suit forthe hand of Pansy Osmond was even a more complicated busi-ness than his taste for proper transitions had allowed. But theextreme good sense which he concealed under a surface sug-gesting that of a careful owner's "best set" came to his assist-ance. "I don't see that I'm bound to consider Mr. Osmond sovery much!" he exclaimed. "No, but you should consider HER.You say you're an old friend. Would you make her suffer?"

"Not for the world.""Then be very careful, and let the matter alone till I've taken

a few soundings.""Let the matter alone, dear Madame Merle? Remember that

I'm in love.""Oh, you won't burn up! Why did you come to me, if you're

not to heed what I say?""You're very kind; I'll be very good," the young man prom-

ised. "But I'm afraid Mr. Osmond's pretty hard," he added inhis mild voice as he went to the door.

Madame Merle gave a short laugh. "It has been said before.But his wife isn't easy either."

"Ah, she's a splendid woman!" Ned Rosier repeated, for de-parture. He resolved that his conduct should be worthy of anaspirant who was already a model of discretion; but he sawnothing in any pledge he had given Madame Merle that madeit improper he should keep himself in spirits by an occasionalvisit to Miss Osmond's home. He reflected constantly on whathis adviser had said to him, and turned over in his mind the im-pression of her rather circumspect tone. He had gone to her deconfiance, as they put it in Paris; but it was possible he hadbeen precipitate. He found difficulty in thinking of himself asrash—he had incurred this reproach so rarely; but it certainlywas true that he had known Madame Merle only for the last

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month, and that his thinking her a delightful woman was not,when one came to look into it, a reason for assuming that shewould be eager to push Pansy Osmond into his arms, gracefullyarranged as these members might be to receive her. She hadindeed shown him benevolence, and she was a person of con-sideration among the girl's people, where she had a ratherstriking appearance (Rosier had more than once wondered howshe managed it) of being intimate without being familiar. Butpossibly he had exaggerated these advantages. There was noparticular reason why she should take trouble for him; acharming woman was charming to every one, and Rosier feltrather a fool when he thought of his having appealed to her onthe ground that she had distinguished him. Very likely—thoughshe had appeared to say it in joke—she was really only thinkingof his bibelots. Had it come into her head that he might offerher two or three of the gems of his collection? If she wouldonly help him to marry Miss Osmond he would present herwith his whole museum. He could hardly say so to her outright;it would seem too gross a bribe. But he should like her to be-lieve it.

It was with these thoughts that he went again to Mrs.Osmond's, Mrs. Osmond having an "evening"—she had takenthe Thursday of each week—when his presence could be ac-counted for on general principles of civility. The object of Mr.Rosier's well-regulated affection dwelt in a high house in thevery heart of Rome; a dark and massive structure overlookinga sunny piazzetta in the neighbourhood of the Farnese Palace.In a palace, too, little Pansy lived—a palace by Roman meas-ure, but a dungeon to poor Rosier's apprehensive mind. Itseemed to him of evil omen that the young lady he wished tomarry, and whose fastidious father he doubted of his ability toconciliate, should be immured in a kind of domestic fortress, apile which bore a stern old Roman name, which smelt of histor-ic deeds, of crime and craft and violence, which was mentionedin "Murray" and visited by tourists who looked, on a vague sur-vey, disappointed and depressed, and which had frescoes byCaravaggio in the piano nobile and a row of mutilated statuesand dusty urns in the wide, nobly-arched loggia overhangingthe damp court where a fountain gushed out of a mossy niche.In a less preoccupied frame of mind he could have done justice

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to the Palazzo Roccanera; he could have entered into the senti-ment of Mrs. Osmond, who had once told him that on settlingthemselves in Rome she and her husband had chosen this hab-itation for the love of local colour. It had local colour enough,and though he knew less about architecture than about Li-moges enamels he could see that the proportions of the win-dows and even the details of the cornice had quite the grandair. But Rosier was haunted by the conviction that at pictur-esque periods young girls had been shut up there to keep themfrom their true loves, and hen, under the threat of beingthrown into convents, had been forced into unholy marriages.There was one point, however, to which he always did justicewhen once he found himself in Mrs. Osmond's warm, rich-looking reception-rooms, which were on the second floor. Heacknowledged that these people were very strong in "goodthings." It was a taste of Osmond's own—not at all of hers; thisshe had told him the first time he came to the house, when,after asking himself for a quarter of an hour whether they hadeven better "French" than he in Paris, he was obliged on thespot to admit that they had, very much, and vanquished hisenvy, as a gentleman should, to the point of expressing to hishostess his pure admiration of her treasures. He learned fromMrs. Osmond that her husband had made a large collection be-fore their marriage and that, though he had annexed a numberof fine pieces within the last three years, he had achieved hisgreatest finds at a time when he had not the advantage of heradvice. Rosier interpreted this information according to prin-ciples of his own. For "advice" read "cash," he said to himself;and the fact that Gilbert Osmond had landed his highest prizesduring his impecunious season confirmed his most cherisheddoctrine—the doctrine that a collector may freely be poor if hebe only patient. In general, when Rosier presented himself on aThursday evening, his first recognition was for the walls of thesaloon; there were three or four objects his eyes really yearnedfor. But after his talk with Madame Merle he felt the extremeseriousness of his position; and now, when he came in, helooked about for the daughter of the house with such eager-ness as might be permitted a gentleman whose smile, as hecrossed a threshold, always took everything comfortable forgranted.

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Chapter 37Pansy was not in the first of the rooms, a large apartment witha concave ceiling and walls covered with old red damask; itwas here Mrs. Osmond usually sat—though she was not in hermost customary place to-night—and that a circle of more espe-cial intimates gathered about the fire. The room was flushedwith subdued, diffused brightness; it contained the largerthings and—almost always—an odour of flowers. Pansy on thisoccasion was presumably in the next of the series, the resort ofyounger visitors, where tea was served. Osmond stood beforethe chimney, leaning back with his hands behind him; he hadone foot up and was warming the sole. Half a dozen persons,scattered near him, were talking together; but he was not inthe conversation; his eyes had an expression, frequent withthem, that seemed to represent them as engaged with objectsmore worth their while than the appearances actually thrustupon them. Rosier, coming in unannounced, failed to attracthis attention; but the young man, who was very punctilious,though he was even exceptionally conscious that it was thewife, not the husband, he had come to see, went up to shakehands with him. Osmond put out his left hand, without chan-ging his attitude.

"How d'ye do? My wife's somewhere about.""Never fear; I shall find her," said Rosier cheerfully.Osmond, however, took him in; he had never in his life felt

himself so efficiently looked at. "Madame Merle has told him,and he doesn't like it," he privately reasoned. He had hopedMadame Merle would be there, but she was not in sight; per-haps she was in one of the other rooms or would come later.He had never especially delighted in Gilbert Osmond, having afancy he gave himself airs. But Rosier was not quickly resent-ful, and where politeness was concerned had ever a strongneed of being quite in the right. He looked round him and

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smiled, all without help, and then in a moment, "I saw a jollygood piece of Capo di Monte to-day," he said.

Osmond answered nothing at first; but presently, while hewarmed his boot-sole, "I don't care a fig for Capo di Monte!" hereturned.

"I hope you're not losing your interest?""In old pots and plates? Yes, I'm losing my interest."Rosier for an instant forgot the delicacy of his position.

"You're not thinking of parting with a—a piece or two?""No, I'm not thinking of parting with anything at all, Mr. Ro-

sier," said Osmond, with his eyes still on the eyes of his visitor."Ah, you want to keep, but not to add," Rosier remarked

brightly."Exactly. I've nothing I wish to match."Poor Rosier was aware he had blushed; he was distressed at

his want of assurance. "Ah, well, I have!" was all he could mur-mur; and he knew his murmur was partly lost as he turnedaway. He took his course to the adjoining room and met Mrs.Osmond coming out of the deep doorway. She was dressed inblack velvet; she looked high and splendid, as he had said, andyet oh so radiantly gentle! We know what Mr. Rosier thoughtof her and the terms in which, to Madame Merle, he had ex-pressed his admiration. Like his appreciation of her dear littlestepdaughter it was based partly on his eye for decorativecharacter, his instinct for authenticity; but also on a sense foruncatalogued values, for that secret of a "lustre" beyond anyrecorded losing or rediscovering, which his devotion to brittlewares had still not disqualified him to recognise. Mrs. Osmond,at present, might well have gratified such tastes. The years hadtouched her only to enrich her; the flower of her youth had notfaded, it only hung more quietly on its stem. She had lostsomething of that quick eagerness to which her husband hadprivately taken exception—she had more the air of being ableto wait. Now, at all events, framed in the gilded doorway, shestruck our young man as the picture of a gracious lady. "Yousee I'm very regular," he said. "But who should be if I'm not?"

"Yes, I've known you longer than any one here. But wemustn't indulge in tender reminiscences. I want to introduceyou to a young lady."

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"Ah, please, what young lady?" Rosier was immensely obli-ging; but this was not what he had come for.

"She sits there by the fire in pink and has no one to speakto." Rosier hesitated a moment. "Can't Mr. Osmond speak toher? He's within six feet of her."

Mrs. Osmond also hesitated. "She's not very lively, and hedoesn't like dull people."

"But she's good enough for me? Ah now, that's hard!""I only mean that you've ideas for two. And then you're so

obliging.""No, he's not—to me." And Mrs. Osmond vaguely smiled."That's a sign he should be doubly so to other women."So I tell him," she said, still smiling."You see I want some tea," Rosier went on, looking wistfully

beyond."That's perfect. Go and give some to my young lady.""Very good; but after that I'll abandon her to her fate. The

simple truth is I'm dying to have a little talk with MissOsmond."

"Ah," said Isabel, turning away, "I can't help you there!"Five minutes later, while he handed a tea-cup to the damsel

in pink, whom he had conducted into the other room, hewondered whether, in making to Mrs. Osmond the profession Ihave just quoted, he had broken the spirit of his promise toMadame Merle. Such a question was capable of occupying thisyoung man's mind for a considerable time. At last, however, hebecame— comparatively speaking—reckless; he cared littlewhat promises he might break. The fate to which he hadthreatened to abandon the damsel in pink proved to be none soterrible; for Pansy Osmond, who had given him the tea for hiscompanion—Pansy was as fond as ever of makingtea—presently came and talked to her. Into this mild colloquyEdward Rosier entered little; he sat by moodily, watching hissmall sweetheart. If we look at her now through his eyes weshall at first not see much to remind us of the obedient littlegirl who, at Florence, three years before, was sent to walkshort distances in the Cascine while her father and Miss Arch-er talked together of matters sacred to elder people. But aftera moment we shall perceive that if at nineteen Pansy has be-come a young lady she doesn't really fill out the part; that if

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she has grown very pretty she lacks in a deplorable degree thequality known and esteemed in the appearance of females asstyle; and that if she is dressed with great freshness she wearsher smart attire with an undisguised appearance of savingit—very much as if it were lent her for the occasion. EdwardRosier, it would seem, would have been just the man to notethese defects; and in point of fact there was not a quality ofthis young lady, of any sort, that he had not noted. Only hecalled her qualities by names of his own—some of which indeedwere happy enough. "No, she's unique—she's absolutelyunique," he used to say to himself; and you may be sure thatnot for an instant would he have admitted to you that she waswanting in style. Style? Why, she had the style of a little prin-cess; if you couldn't see it you had no eye. It was not modern, itwas not conscious, it would produce no impression in Broad-way; the small, serious damsel, in her stiff little dress, onlylooked like an Infanta of Velasquez. This was enough for Ed-ward Rosier, who thought her delightfully old-fashioned. Heranxious eyes, her charming lips, her slip of a figure, were astouching as a childish prayer. He had now an acute desire toknow just to what point she liked him—a desire which madehim fidget as he sat in his chair. It made him feel hot, so thathe had to pat his forehead with his handkerchief; he had neverbeen so uncomfortable. She was such a perfect jeune fille, andone couldn't make of a jeune fille the enquiry requisite forthrowing light on such a point. A jeune fille was what Rosierhad always dreamed of—a jeune fille who should yet not beFrench, for he had felt that this nationality would complicatethe question. He was sure Pansy had never looked at a newspa-per and that, in the way of novels, if she had read Sir WalterScott it was the very most. An American jeune fille—what couldbe better than that? She would be frank and gay, and yetwould not have walked alone, nor have received letters frommen, nor have been taken to the theatre to see the comedy ofmanners. Rosier could not deny that, as the matter stood, itwould be a breach of hospitality to appeal directly to this un-sophisticated creature; but he was now in imminent danger ofasking himself if hospitality were the most sacred thing in theworld. Was not the sentiment that he entertained for Miss Os-mond of infinitely greater importance? Of greater importance

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to him—yes; but not probably to the master of the house. Therewas one comfort; even if this gentleman had been placed on hisguard by Madame Merle he would not have extended the warn-ing to Pansy; it would not have been part of his policy to let herknow that a prepossessing young man was in love with her. Buthe WAS in love with her, the prepossessing young man; and allthese restrictions of circumstance had ended by irritating him.What had Gilbert Osmond meant by giving him two fingers ofhis left hand? If Osmond was rude, surely he himself might bebold. He felt extremely bold after the dull girl in so vain a dis-guise of rose-colour had responded to the call of her mother,who came in to say, with a significant simper at Rosier, thatshe must carry her off to other triumphs. The mother anddaughter departed together, and now it depended only uponhim that he should be virtually alone with Pansy. He had neverbeen alone with her before; he had never been alone with ajeune fille. It was a great moment; poor Rosier began to pat hisforehead again. There was another room beyond the one inwhich they stood—a small room that had been thrown openand lighted, but that, the company not being numerous, had re-mained empty all the evening. It was empty yet; it was up-holstered in pale yellow; there were several lamps; through theopen door it looked the very temple of authorised love. Rosiergazed a moment through this aperture; he was afraid thatPansy would run away, and felt almost capable of stretchingout a hand to detain her. But she lingered where the othermaiden had left them, making no motion to join a knot of visit-ors on the far side of the room. For a little it occurred to himthat she was frightened—too frightened perhaps to move; but asecond glance assured him she was not, and he then reflectedthat she was too innocent indeed for that. After a supreme hes-itation he asked her if he might go and look at the yellow room,which seemed so attractive yet so virginal. He had been therealready with Osmond, to inspect the furniture, which was ofthe First French Empire, and especially to admire the clock(which he didn't really admire), an immense classic structureof that period. He therefore felt that he had now begun tomanoeuvre.

"Certainly, you may go," said Pansy; "and if you like I'll showyou." She was not in the least frightened.

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"That's just what I hoped you'd say; you're so very kind," Ro-sier murmured.

They went in together; Rosier really thought the room veryugly, and it seemed cold. The same idea appeared to havestruck Pansy. "It's not for winter evenings; it's more for sum-mer," she said. "It's papa's taste; he has so much."

He had a good deal, Rosier thought; but some of it was verybad. He looked about him; he hardly knew what to say in sucha situation. "Doesn't Mrs. Osmond care how her rooms aredone? Has she no taste?" he asked.

"Oh yes, a great deal; but it's more for literature," said Pansy—"and for conversation. But papa cares also for those things. Ithink he knows everything."

Rosier was silent a little. "There's one thing I'm sure heknows!" he broke out presently. "He knows that when I comehere it's, with all respect to him, with all respect to Mrs. Os-mond, who's so charming—it's really," said the young man, "tosee you!"

"To see me?" And Pansy raised her vaguely troubled eyes."To see you; that's what I come for," Rosier repeated, feeling

the intoxication of a rupture with authority.Pansy stood looking at him, simply, intently, openly; a blush

was not needed to make her face more modest. "I thought itwas for that."

"And it was not disagreeable to you?""I couldn't tell; I didn't know. You never told me," said Pansy."I was afraid of offending you.""You don't offend me," the young girl murmured, smiling as if

an angel had kissed her."You like me then, Pansy?" Rosier asked very gently, feeling

very happy."Yes—I like you."They had walked to the chimney-piece where the big cold

Empire clock was perched; they were well within the room andbeyond observation from without. The tone in which she hadsaid these four words seemed to him the very breath of nature,and his only answer could be to take her hand and hold it a mo-ment. Then he raised it to his lips. She submitted, still with herpure, trusting smile, in which there was something ineffablypassive. She liked him—she had liked him all the while; now

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anything might happen! She was ready—she had been readyalways, waiting for him to speak. If he had not spoken shewould have waited for ever; but when the word came shedropped like the peach from the shaken tree. Rosier felt that ifhe should draw her toward him and hold her to his heart shewould submit without a murmur, would rest there without aquestion. It was true that this would be a rash experiment in ayellow Empire salottino. She had known it was for her hecame, and yet like what a perfect little lady she had carried itoff!

"You're very dear to me," he murmured, trying to believe thatthere was after all such a thing as hospitality.

She looked a moment at her hand, where he had kissed it."Did you say papa knows?"

"You told me just now he knows everything.""I think you must make sure," said Pansy."Ah, my dear, when once I'm sure of YOU!" Rosier murmured

in her ear; whereupon she turned back to the other rooms witha little air of consistency which seemed to imply that their ap-peal should be immediate.

The other rooms meanwhile had become conscious of the ar-rival of Madame Merle, who, wherever she went, produced animpression when she entered. How she did it the most attent-ive spectator could not have told you, for she neither spokeloud, nor laughed profusely, nor moved rapidly, nor dressedwith splendour, nor appealed in any appreciable manner to theaudience. Large, fair, smiling, serene, there was something inher very tranquillity that diffused itself, and when peoplelooked round it was because of a sudden quiet. On this occa-sion she had done the quietest thing she could do; after embra-cing Mrs. Osmond, which was more striking, she had sat downon a small sofa to commune with the master of the house.There was a brief exchange of commonplaces between thesetwo—they always paid, in public, a certain formal tribute to thecommonplace—and then Madame Merle, whose eyes had beenwandering, asked if little Mr. Rosier had come this evening.

"He came nearly an hour ago—but he has disappeared," Os-mond said.

"And where's Pansy?""In the other room. There are several people there."

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"He's probably among them," said Madame Merle."Do you wish to see him?" Osmond asked in a provokingly

pointless tone.Madame Merle looked at him a moment; she knew each of

his tones to the eighth of a note. "Yes, I should like to say tohim that I've told you what he wants, and that it interests youbut feebly."

"Don't tell him that. He'll try to interest me more—which isexactly what I don't want. Tell him I hate his proposal."

"But you don't hate it.""It doesn't signify; I don't love it. I let him see that, myself,

this evening; I was rude to him on purpose. That sort of thing'sa great bore. There's no hurry."

"I'll tell him that you'll take time and think it over.""No, don't do that. He'll hang on.""If I discourage him he'll do the same.""Yes, but in the one case he'll try to talk and explain—which

would be exceedingly tiresome. In the other he'll probably holdhis tongue and go in for some deeper game. That will leave mequiet. I hate talking with a donkey."

"Is that what you call poor Mr. Rosier?""Oh, he's a nuisance—with his eternal majolica."Madame Merle dropped her eyes; she had a faint smile.

"He's a gentleman, he has a charming temper; and, after all, anincome of forty thousand francs!"

"It's misery—'genteel' misery," Osmond broke in. "It's notwhat I've dreamed of for Pansy."

"Very good then. He has promised me not to speak to her.""Do you believe him?" Osmond asked absentmindedly."Perfectly. Pansy has thought a great deal about him; but I

don't suppose you consider that that matters.""I don't consider it matters at all; but neither do I believe she

has thought of him.""That opinion's more convenient," said Madame Merle

quietly."Has she told you she's in love with him?""For what do you take her? And for what do you take me?"

Madame Merle added in a moment.Osmond had raised his foot and was resting his slim ankle on

the other knee; he clasped his ankle in his hand familiarly—his

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long, fine forefinger and thumb could make a ring for it—andgazed a while before him. "This kind of thing doesn't find meunprepared. It's what I educated her for. It was all for this—that when such a case should come up she should do what Iprefer."

"I'm not afraid that she'll not do it.""Well then, where's the hitch?""I don't see any. But, all the same, I recommend you not to

get rid of Mr. Rosier. Keep him on hand; he may be useful.""I can't keep him. Keep him yourself.""Very good; I'll put him into a corner and allow him so much

a day." Madame Merle had, for the most part, while theytalked, been glancing about her; it was her habit in this situ-ation, just as it was her habit to interpose a good many blank-looking pauses. A long drop followed the last words I havequoted; and before it had ended she saw Pansy come out of theadjoining room, followed by Edward Rosier. The girl advanceda few steps and then stopped and stood looking at MadameMerle and at her father.

"He has spoken to her," Madame Merle went on to Osmond.Her companion never turned his head. "So much for your be-

lief in his promises. He ought to be horsewhipped.""He intends to confess, poor little man!"Osmond got up; he had now taken a sharp look at his daugh-

ter. "It doesn't matter," he murmured, turning away.Pansy after a moment came up to Madame Merle with her

little manner of unfamiliar politeness. This lady's reception ofher was not more intimate; she simply, as she rose from thesofa, gave her a friendly smile.

"You're very late," the young creature gently said."My dear child, I'm never later than I intend to be."Madame Merle had not got up to be gracious to Pansy; she

moved toward Edward Rosier. He came to meet her and, veryquickly, as if to get it off his mind, "I've spoken to her!" hewhispered.

"I know it, Mr. Rosier.""Did she tell you?""Yes, she told me. Behave properly for the rest of the even-

ing, and come and see me to-morrow at a quarter past five."She was severe, and in the manner in which she turned her

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back to him there was a degree of contempt which caused himto mutter a decent imprecation.

He had no intention of speaking to Osmond; it was neitherthe time nor the place. But he instinctively wandered towardIsabel, who sat talking with an old lady. He sat down on theother side of her; the old lady was Italian, and Rosier took forgranted she understood no English. "You said just now youwouldn't help me," he began to Mrs. Osmond. "Perhaps you'llfeel differently when you know—when you know—!"

Isabel met his hesitation. "When I know what?""That she's all right.""What do you mean by that?""Well, that we've come to an understanding.""She's all wrong," said Isabel. "It won't do."Poor Rosier gazed at her half-pleadingly, half-angrily; a sud-

den flush testified to his sense of injury. "I've never beentreated so," he said. "What is there against me, after all? That'snot the way I'm usually considered. I could have marriedtwenty times."

"It's a pity you didn't. I don't mean twenty times, but once,comfortably," Isabel added, smiling kindly. "You're not richenough for Pansy."

"She doesn't care a straw for one's money.""No, but her father does.""Ah yes, he has proved that!" cried the young man.Isabel got up, turning away from him, leaving her old lady

without ceremony; and he occupied himself for the next tenminutes in pretending to look at Gilbert Osmond's collection ofminiatures, which were neatly arranged on a series of smallvelvet screens. But he looked without seeing; his cheekburned; he was too full of his sense of injury. It was certainthat he had never been treated that way before; he was notused to being thought not good enough. He knew how good hewas, and if such a fallacy had not been so pernicious he couldhave laughed at it. He searched again for Pansy, but she haddisappeared, and his main desire was now to get out of thehouse. Before doing so he spoke once more to Isabel; it was notagreeable to him to reflect that he had just said a rude thing toher—the only point that would now justify a low view of him.

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"I referred to Mr. Osmond as I shouldn't have done, a whileago," he began. "But you must remember my situation."

"I don't remember what you said," she answered coldly."Ah, you're offended, and now you'll never help me."She was silent an instant, and then with a change of tone:

"It's not that I won't; I simply can't!" Her manner was almostpassionate.

"If you COULD, just a little, I'd never again speak of yourhusband save as an angel."

"The inducement's great," said Isabel gravely—inscrutably,as he afterwards, to himself, called it; and she gave him,straight in the eyes, a look which was also inscrutable. It madehim remember somehow that he had known her as a child; andyet it was keener than he liked, and he took himself off.

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Chapter 38He went to see Madame Merle on the morrow, and to his sur-prise she let him off rather easily. But she made him promisethat he would stop there till something should have been de-cided. Mr. Osmond had had higher expectations; it was verytrue that as he had no intention of giving his daughter a por-tion such expectations were open to criticism or even, if onewould, to ridicule. But she would advise Mr. Rosier not to takethat tone; if he would possess his soul in patience he might ar-rive at his felicity. Mr. Osmond was not favourable to his suit,but it wouldn't be a miracle if he should gradually come round.Pansy would never defy her father, he might depend on that; sonothing was to be gained by precipitation. Mr. Osmond neededto accustom his mind to an offer of a sort that he had nothitherto entertained, and this result must come of itself—it wasuseless to try to force it. Rosier remarked that his own situ-ation would be in the meanwhile the most uncomfortable in theworld, and Madame Merle assured him that she felt for him.But, as she justly declared, one couldn't have everything onewanted; she had learned that lesson for herself. There wouldbe no use in his writing to Gilbert Osmond, who had chargedher to tell him as much. He wished the matter dropped for afew weeks and would himself write when he should have any-thing to communicate that it might please Mr. Rosier to hear.

"He doesn't like your having spoken to Pansy, Ah, he doesn'tlike it at all," said Madame Merle.

"I'm perfectly willing to give him a chance to tell me so!""If you do that he'll tell you more than you care to hear. Go to

the house, for the next month, as little as possible, and leavethe rest to me."

"As little as possible? Who's to measure the possibility?""Let me measure it. Go on Thursday evenings with the rest of

the world, but don't go at all at odd times, and don't fret about

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Pansy. I'll see that she understands everything. She's a calmlittle nature; she'll take it quietly."

Edward Rosier fretted about Pansy a good deal, but he did ashe was advised, and awaited another Thursday evening beforereturning to Palazzo Roccanera. There had been a party at din-ner, so that though he went early the company was already tol-erably numerous. Osmond, as usual, was in the first room, nearthe fire, staring straight at the door, so that, not to be dis-tinctly uncivil, Rosier had to go and speak to him.

"I'm glad that you can take a hint," Pansy's father said,slightly closing his keen, conscious eyes.

"I take no hints. But I took a message, as I supposed it to be.""You took it? Where did you take it?"It seemed to poor Rosier he was being insulted, and he

waited a moment, asking himself how much a true lover oughtto submit to. "Madame Merle gave me, as I understood it, amessage from you— to the effect that you declined to give methe opportunity I desire, the opportunity to explain my wishesto you." And he flattered himself he spoke rather sternly.

"I don't see what Madame Merle has to do with it. Why didyou apply to Madame Merle?"

"I asked her for an opinion—for nothing more. I did so be-cause she had seemed to me to know you very well."

"She doesn't know me so well as she thinks," said Osmond."I'm sorry for that, because she has given me some little

ground for hope."Osmond stared into the fire a moment. "I set a great price on

my daughter.""You can't set a higher one than I do. Don't I prove it by wish-

ing to marry her?""I wish to marry her very well," Osmond went on with a dry

impertinence which, in another mood, poor Rosier would haveadmired.

"Of course I pretend she'd marry well in marrying me. Shecouldn't marry a man who loves her more—or whom, I mayventure to add, she loves more."

"I'm not bound to accept your theories as to whom my daugh-ter loves"—and Osmond looked up with a quick, cold smile.

"I'm not theorising. Your daughter has spoken."

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"Not to me," Osmond continued, now bending forward a littleand dropping his eyes to his boot-toes.

"I have her promise, sir!" cried Rosier with the sharpness ofexasperation.

As their voices had been pitched very low before, such a noteattracted some attention from the company. Osmond waited tillthis little movement had subsided; then he said, all undis-turbed: "I think she has no recollection of having given it."

They had been standing with their faces to the fire, and afterhe had uttered these last words the master of the house turnedround again to the room. Before Rosier had time to reply heperceived that a gentleman—a stranger—had just come in, un-announced, according to the Roman custom, and was about topresent himself to his host. The latter smiled blandly, butsomewhat blankly; the visitor had a handsome face and a large,fair beard, and was evidently an Englishman.

"You apparently don't recognise me," he said with a smilethat expressed more than Osmond's.

"Ah yes, now I do. I expected so little to see you."Rosier departed and went in direct pursuit of Pansy. He

sought her, as usual, in the neighbouring room, but he againencountered Mrs. Osmond in his path. He gave his hostess nogreeting—he was too righteously indignant, but said to hercrudely: "Your husband's awfully cold-blooded."

She gave the same mystical smile he had noticed before."You can't expect every one to be as hot as yourself."

"I don't pretend to be cold, but I'm cool. What has he beendoing to his daughter?"

"I've no idea.""Don't you take any interest?" Rosier demanded with his

sense that she too was irritating.For a moment she answered nothing; then, "No!" she said ab-

ruptly and with a quickened light in her eyes which directlycontradicted the word.

"Pardon me if I don't believe that. Where's Miss Osmond?""In the corner, making tea. Please leave her there."Rosier instantly discovered his friend, who had been hidden

by intervening groups. He watched her, but her own attentionwas entirely given to her occupation. "What on earth has he

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done to her?" he asked again imploringly. "He declares to meshe has given me up."

"She has not given you up," Isabel said in a low tone andwithout looking at him.

"Ah, thank you for that! Now I'll leave her alone as long asyou think proper!"

He had hardly spoken when he saw her change colour, andbecame aware that Osmond was coming toward her accompan-ied by the gentleman who had just entered. He judged the lat-ter, in spite of the advantage of good looks and evident socialexperience, a little embarrassed. "Isabel," said her husband, "Ibring you an old friend."

Mrs. Osmond's face, though it wore a smile, was, like her oldfriend's, not perfectly confident. "I'm very happy to see LordWarburton," she said. Rosier turned away and, now that histalk with her had been interrupted, felt absolved from the littlepledge he had just taken. He had a quick impression that Mrs.Osmond wouldn't notice what he did.

Isabel in fact, to do him justice, for some time quite ceased toobserve him. She had been startled; she hardly knew if she felta pleasure or a pain. Lord Warburton, however, now that hewas face to face with her, was plainly quite sure of his ownsense of the matter; though his grey eyes had still their fineoriginal property of keeping recognition and attestation strictlysincere. He was "heavier" than of yore and looked older; hestood there very solidly and sensibly.

"I suppose you didn't expect to see me," he said; "I've butjust arrived. Literally, I only got here this evening. You see I'velost no time in coming to pay you my respects. I knew you wereat home on Thursdays."

"You see the fame of your Thursdays has spread to England,"Osmond remarked to his wife.

"It's very kind of Lord Warburton to come so soon; we'regreatly flattered," Isabel said.

"Ah well, it's better than stopping in one of those horribleinns," Osmond went on.

"The hotel seems very good; I think it's the same at which Isaw you four years since. You know it was here in Rome thatwe first met; it's a long time ago. Do you remember where I

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bade you good-bye?" his lordship asked of his hostess. "It wasin the Capitol, in the first room."

"I remember that myself," said Osmond. "I was there at thetime."

"Yes, I remember you there. I was very sorry to leaveRome—so sorry that, somehow or other, it became almost adismal memory, and I've never cared to come back till to-day.But I knew you were living here," her old friend went on to Isa-bel, "and I assure you I've often thought of you. It must be acharming place to live in," he added with a look, round him, ather established home, in which she might have caught the dimghost of his old ruefulness.

"We should have been glad to see you at any time," Osmondobserved with propriety.

"Thank you very much. I haven't been out of England sincethen. Till a month ago I really supposed my travels over."

"I've heard of you from time to time," said Isabel, who hadalready, with her rare capacity for such inward feats, taken themeasure of what meeting him again meant for her.

"I hope you've heard no harm. My life has been a remarkablycomplete blank."

"Like the good reigns in history," Osmond suggested. He ap-peared to think his duties as a host now terminated—he hadperformed them so conscientiously. Nothing could have beenmore adequate, more nicely measured, than his courtesy to hiswife's old friend. It was punctilious, it was explicit, it waseverything but natural—a deficiency which Lord Warburton,who, himself, had on the whole a good deal of nature, may besupposed to have perceived. "I'll leave you and Mrs. Osmondtogether," he added. "You have reminiscences into which Idon't enter."

"I'm afraid you lose a good deal!" Lord Warburton calledafter him, as he moved away, in a tone which perhaps betrayedovermuch an appreciation of his generosity. Then the visitorturned on Isabel the deeper, the deepest, consciousness of hislook, which gradually became more serious. "I'm really veryglad to see you."

"It's very pleasant. You're very kind.""Do you know that you're changed—a little?"She just hesitated. "Yes—a good deal."

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"I don't mean for the worse, of course; and yet how can I sayfor the better?"

"I think I shall have no scruple in saying that to YOU," shebravely returned.

"Ah well, for me—it's a long time. It would be a pity thereshouldn't be something to show for it." They sat down and sheasked him about his sisters, with other enquiries of a some-what perfunctory kind. He answered her questions as if theyinterested him, and in a few moments she saw—or believed shesaw—that he would press with less of his whole weight than ofyore. Time had breathed upon his heart and, without chilling it,given it a relieved sense of having taken the air. Isabel felt herusual esteem for Time rise at a bound. Her friend's mannerwas certainly that of a contented man, one who would ratherlike people, or like her at least, to know him for such. "There'ssomething I must tell you without more delay," he resumed."I've brought Ralph Touchett with me."

"Brought him with you?" Isabel's surprise was great."He's at the hotel; he was too tired to come out and has gone

to bed.""I'll go to see him," she immediately said."That's exactly what I hoped you'd do. I had an idea you

hadn't seen much of him since your marriage, that in fact yourrelations were a—a little more formal. That's why I hesit-ated—like an awkward Briton."

"I'm as fond of Ralph as ever," Isabel answered. "But why hashe come to Rome?" The declaration was very gentle, the ques-tion a little sharp.

"Because he's very far gone, Mrs. Osmond.""Rome then is no place for him. I heard from him that he had

determined to give up his custom of wintering abroad and toremain in England, indoors, in what he called an artificialclimate."

"Poor fellow, he doesn't succeed with the artificial! I went tosee him three weeks ago, at Gardencourt, and found him thor-oughly ill. He has been getting worse every year, and now hehas no strength left. He smokes no more cigarettes! He hadgot up an artificial climate indeed; the house was as hot as Cal-cutta. Nevertheless he had suddenly taken it into his head tostart for Sicily. I didn't believe in it—neither did the doctors,

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nor any of his friends. His mother, as I suppose you know, is inAmerica, so there was no one to prevent him. He stuck to hisidea that it would be the saving of him to spend the winter atCatania. He said he could take servants and furniture, couldmake himself comfortable, but in point of fact he hasn'tbrought anything. I wanted him at least to go by sea, to savefatigue; but he said he hated the sea and wished to stop atRome. After that, though I thought it all rubbish, I made up mymind to come with him. I'm acting as—what do you call it inAmerica?—as a kind of moderator. Poor Ralph's very moderatenow. We left England a fortnight ago, and he has been verybad on the way. He can't keep warm, and the further south wecome the more he feels the cold. He has got rather a goodman, but I'm afraid he's beyond human help. I wanted him totake with him some clever fellow—I mean some sharp youngdoctor; but he wouldn't hear of it. If you don't mind my sayingso, I think it was a most extraordinary time for Mrs. Touchettto decide on going to America."

Isabel had listened eagerly; her face was full of pain andwonder. "My aunt does that at fixed periods and lets nothingturn her aside. When the date comes round she starts; I thinkshe'd have started if Ralph had been dying."

"I sometimes think he IS dying," Lord Warburton said.Isabel sprang up. "I'll go to him then now."He checked her; he was a little disconcerted at the quick ef-

fect of his words. "I don't mean I thought so to-night. On thecontrary, to-day, in the train, he seemed particularly well; theidea of our reaching Rome—he's very fond of Rome, youknow— gave him strength. An hour ago, when I bade him good-night, he told me he was very tired, but very happy. Go to himin the morning; that's all I mean. I didn't tell him I was cominghere; I didn't decide to till after we had separated. Then I re-membered he had told me you had an evening, and that it wasthis very Thursday. It occurred to me to come in and tell youhe's here, and let you know you had perhaps better not wait forhim to call. I think he said he hadn't written to you." There wasno need of Isabel's declaring that she would act upon LordWarburton's information; she looked, as she sat there, like awinged creature held back. "Let alone that I wanted to see youfor myself," her visitor gallantly added.

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"I don't understand Ralph's plan; it seems to me very wild,"she said. "I was glad to think of him between those thick wallsat Gardencourt."

"He was completely alone there; the thick walls were his onlycompany."

"You went to see him; you've been extremely kind.""Oh dear, I had nothing to do," said Lord Warburton."We hear, on the contrary, that you're doing great things.

Every one speaks of you as a great statesman, and I'm perpetu-ally seeing your name in the Times, which, by the way, doesn'tappear to hold it in reverence. You're apparently as wild a rad-ical as ever."

"I don't feel nearly so wild; you know the world has comeround to me. Touchett and I have kept up a sort of parliament-ary debate all the way from London. I tell him he's the last ofthe Tories, and he calls me the King of the Goths—says I have,down to the details of my personal appearance, every sign ofthe brute. So you see there's life in him yet."

Isabel had many questions to ask about Ralph, but she ab-stained from asking them all. She would see for herself on themorrow. She perceived that after a little Lord Warburtonwould tire of that subject—he had a conception of other pos-sible topics. She was more and more able to say to herself thathe had recovered, and, what is more to the point, she was ableto say it without bitterness. He had been for her, of old, suchan image of urgency, of insistence, of something to be resistedand reasoned with, that his reappearance at first menaced herwith a new trouble. But she was now reassured; she could seehe only wished to live with her on good terms, that she was tounderstand he had forgiven her and was incapable of the badtaste of making pointed allusions. This was not a form of re-venge, of course; she had no suspicion of his wishing to punishher by an exhibition of disillusionment; she did him the justiceto believe it had simply occurred to him that she would nowtake a good-natured interest in knowing he was resigned. Itwas the resignation of a healthy, manly nature, in which senti-mental wounds could never fester. British politics had curedhim; she had known they would. She gave an envious thoughtto the happier lot of men, who are always free to plunge intothe healing waters of action. Lord Warburton of course spoke

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of the past, but he spoke of it without implications; he evenwent so far as to allude to their former meeting in Rome as avery jolly time. And he told her he had been immensely inter-ested in hearing of her marriage and that it was a great pleas-ure for him to make Mr. Osmond's acquaintance—since hecould hardly be said to have made it on the other occasion. Hehad not written to her at the time of that passage in her his-tory, but he didn't apologise to her for this. The only thing heimplied was that they were old friends, intimate friends. It wasvery much as an intimate friend that he said to her, suddenly,after a short pause which he had occupied in smiling, as helooked about him, like a person amused, at a provincial enter-tainment, by some innocent game of guesses—

"Well now, I suppose you're very happy and all that sort ofthing?"

Isabel answered with a quick laugh; the tone of his remarkstruck her almost as the accent of comedy. "Do you suppose if Iwere not I'd tell you?"

"Well, I don't know. I don't see why not.""I do then. Fortunately, however, I'm very happy.""You've got an awfully good house.""Yes, it's very pleasant. But that's not my merit—it's my

husband's.""You mean he has arranged it?""Yes, it was nothing when we came.""He must be very clever.""He has a genius for upholstery," said Isabel."There's a great rage for that sort of thing now. But you must

have a taste of your own.""I enjoy things when they're done, but I've no ideas. I can

never propose anything.""Do you mean you accept what others propose?""Very willingly, for the most part.""That's a good thing to know. I shall propose to you

something.""It will be very kind. I must say, however, that I've in a few

small ways a certain initiative. I should like for instance to in-troduce you to some of these people."

"Oh, please don't; I prefer sitting here. Unless it be to thatyoung lady in the blue dress. She has a charming face."

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"The one talking to the rosy young man? That's my husband'sdaughter."

"Lucky man, your husband. What a dear little maid!""You must make her acquaintance.""In a moment—with pleasure. I like looking at her from

here." He ceased to look at her, however, very soon; his eyesconstantly reverted to Mrs. Osmond. "Do you know I waswrong just now in saying you had changed?" he presently wenton. "You seem to me, after all, very much the same."

"And yet I find it a great change to be married," said Isabelwith mild gaiety.

"It affects most people more than it has affected you. You seeI haven't gone in for that."

"It rather surprises me.""You ought to understand it, Mrs. Osmond. But I do want to

marry," he added more simply."It ought to be very easy," Isabel said, rising—after which

she reflected, with a pang perhaps too visible, that she washardly the person to say this. It was perhaps because LordWarburton divined the pang that he generously forbore to callher attention to her not having contributed then to the facility.

Edward Rosier had meanwhile seated himself on an ottomanbeside Pansy's tea-table. He pretended at first to talk to herabout trifles, and she asked him who was the new gentlemanconversing with her stepmother.

"He's an English lord," said Rosier. "I don't know more.""I wonder if he'll have some tea. The English are so fond of

tea.""Never mind that; I've something particular to say to you.""Don't speak so loud every one will hear," said Pansy."They won't hear if you continue to look that way: as if your

only thought in life was the wish the kettle would boil.""It has just been filled; the servants never know!"—and she

sighed with the weight of her responsibility."Do you know what your father said to me just now? That you

didn't mean what you said a week ago.""I don't mean everything I say. How can a young girl do that?

But I mean what I say to you.""He told me you had forgotten me."

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"Ah no, I don't forget," said Pansy, showing her pretty teethin a fixed smile.

"Then everything's just the very same?""Ah no, not the very same. Papa has been terribly severe.""What has he done to you?""He asked me what you had done to me, and I told him

everything. Then he forbade me to marry you.""You needn't mind that.""Oh yes, I must indeed. I can't disobey papa.""Not for one who loves you as I do, and whom you pretend to

love?"She raised the lid of the tea-pot, gazing into this vessel for a

moment; then she dropped six words into its aromatic depths."I love you just as much."

"What good will that do me?""Ah," said Pansy, raising her sweet, vague eyes, "I don't

know that.""You disappoint me," groaned poor Rosier.She was silent a little; she handed a tea-cup to a servant.

"Please don't talk any more.""Is this to be all my satisfaction?""Papa said I was not to talk with you.""Do you sacrifice me like that? Ah, it's too much!""I wish you'd wait a little," said the girl in a voice just distinct

enough to betray a quaver."Of course I'll wait if you'll give me hope. But you take my

life away.""I'll not give you up—oh no!" Pansy went on."He'll try and make you marry some one else.""I'll never do that.""What then are we to wait for?"She hesitated again. "I'll speak to Mrs. Osmond and she'll

help us." It was in this manner that she for the most part desig-nated her stepmother.

"She won't help us much. She's afraid.""Afraid of what?""Of your father, I suppose."Pansy shook her little head. "She's not afraid of any one. We

must have patience."

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"Ah, that's an awful word," Rosier groaned; he was deeplydisconcerted. Oblivious of the customs of good society, hedropped his head into his hands and, supporting it with a mel-ancholy grace, sat staring at the carpet. Presently he becameaware of a good deal of movement about him and, as he lookedup, saw Pansy making a curtsey—it was still her little curtseyof the convent—to the English lord whom Mrs. Osmond hadintroduced.

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Chapter 39It will probably not surprise the reflective reader that RalphTouchett should have seen less of his cousin since her mar-riage than he had done before that event—an event of which hetook such a view as could hardly prove a confirmation of intim-acy. He had uttered his thought, as we know, and after this hadheld his peace, Isabel not having invited him to resume a dis-cussion which marked an era in their relations. That discussionhad made a difference—the difference he feared rather thanthe one he hoped. It had not chilled the girl's zeal in carryingout her engagement, but it had come dangerously near tospoiling a friendship. No reference was ever again madebetween them to Ralph's opinion of Gilbert Osmond, and bysurrounding this topic with a sacred silence they managed topreserve a semblance of reciprocal frankness. But there was adifference, as Ralph often said to himself—there was a differ-ence. She had not forgiven him, she never would forgive him:that was all he had gained. She thought she had forgiven him;she believed she didn't care; and as she was both very gener-ous and very proud these convictions represented a certainreality. But whether or no the event should justify him hewould virtually have done her a wrong, and the wrong was ofthe sort that women remember best. As Osmond's wife shecould never again be his friend. If in this character she shouldenjoy the felicity she expected, she would have nothing butcontempt for the man who had attempted, in advance, to un-dermine a blessing so dear; and if on the other hand his warn-ing should be justified the vow she had taken that he shouldnever know it would lay upon her spirit such a burden as tomake her hate him. So dismal had been, during the year thatfollowed his cousin's marriage, Ralph's prevision of the future;and if his meditations appear morbid we must remember hewas not in the bloom of health. He consoled himself as he

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might by behaving (as he deemed) beautifully, and was presentat the ceremony by which Isabel was united to Mr. Osmond,and which was performed in Florence in the month of June. Helearned from his mother that Isabel at first had thought of cel-ebrating her nuptials in her native land, but that as simplicitywas what she chiefly desired to secure she had finally decided,in spite of Osmond's professed willingness to make a journey ofany length, that this characteristic would be best embodied intheir being married by the nearest clergyman in the shortesttime. The thing was done therefore at the little Americanchapel, on a very hot day, in the presence only of Mrs.Touchett and her son, of Pansy Osmond and the CountessGemini. That severity in the proceedings of which I just spokewas in part the result of the absence of two persons who mighthave been looked for on the occasion and who would have lentit a certain richness. Madame Merle had been invited, but Ma-dame Merle, who was unable to leave Rome, had written a gra-cious letter of excuses. Henrietta Stackpole had not been in-vited, as her departure from America, announced to Isabel byMr. Goodwood, was in fact frustrated by the duties of her pro-fession; but she had sent a letter, less gracious than MadameMerle's, intimating that, had she been able to cross the At-lantic, she would have been present not only as a witness butas a critic. Her return to Europe had taken place somewhatlater, and she had effected a meeting with Isabel in the au-tumn, in Paris, when she had indulged—perhaps a trifle toofreely—her critical genius. Poor Osmond, who was chiefly thesubject of it, had protested so sharply that Henrietta was ob-liged to declare to Isabel that she had taken a step which put abarrier between them. "It isn't in the least that you've mar-ried—it is that you have married HIM," she had deemed it herduty to remark; agreeing, it will be seen, much more with Ral-ph Touchett than she suspected, though she had few of his hes-itations and compunctions. Henrietta's second visit to Europe,however, was not apparently to have been made in vain; forjust at the moment when Osmond had declared to Isabel thathe really must object to that newspaper-woman, and Isabel hadanswered that it seemed to her he took Henrietta too hard, thegood Mr. Bantling had appeared upon the scene and proposedthat they should take a run down to Spain. Henrietta's letters

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from Spain had proved the most acceptable she had yet pub-lished, and there had been one in especial, dated from the Al-hambra and entitled 'Moors and Moonlight,' which generallypassed for her masterpiece. Isabel had been secretly disap-pointed at her husband's not seeing his way simply to take thepoor girl for funny. She even wondered if his sense of fun, or ofthe funny—which would be his sense of humour, wouldn'tit?—were by chance defective. Of course she herself looked atthe matter as a person whose present happiness had nothing togrudge to Henrietta's violated conscience. Osmond hadthought their alliance a kind of monstrosity; he couldn't ima-gine what they had in common. For him, Mr. Bantling's fellowtourist was simply the most vulgar of women, and he had alsopronounced her the most abandoned. Against this latter clauseof the verdict Isabel had appealed with an ardour that hadmade him wonder afresh at the oddity of some of his wife'stastes. Isabel could explain it only by saying that she liked toknow people who were as different as possible from herself."Why then don't you make the acquaintance of your washerwo-man?" Osmond had enquired; to which Isabel had answeredthat she was afraid her washerwoman wouldn't care for her.Now Henrietta cared so much.

Ralph had seen nothing of her for the greater part of the twoyears that had followed her marriage; the winter that formedthe beginning of her residence in Rome he had spent again atSan Remo, where he had been joined in the spring by his moth-er, who afterwards had gone with him to England, to see whatthey were doing at the bank—an operation she couldn't inducehim to perform. Ralph had taken a lease of his house at SanRemo, a small villa which he had occupied still another winter;but late in the month of April of this second year he had comedown to Rome. It was the first time since her marriage that hehad stood face to face with Isabel; his desire to see her againwas then of the keenest. She had written to him from time totime, but her letters told him nothing he wanted to know. Hehad asked his mother what she was making of her life, and hismother had simply answered that she supposed she was mak-ing the best of it. Mrs. Touchett had not the imagination thatcommunes with the unseen, and she now pretended to no in-timacy with her niece, whom she rarely encountered. This

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young woman appeared to be living in a sufficiently honourableway, but Mrs. Touchett still remained of the opinion that hermarriage had been a shabby affair. It had given her no pleas-ure to think of Isabel's establishment, which she was sure wasa very lame business. From time to time, in Florence, sherubbed against the Countess Gemini, doing her best always tominimise the contact; and the Countess reminded her of Os-mond, who made her think of Isabel. The Countess was lesstalked of in these days; but Mrs. Touchett augured no good ofthat: it only proved how she had been talked of before. Therewas a more direct suggestion of Isabel in the person of Ma-dame Merle; but Madame Merle's relations with Mrs. Touchetthad undergone a perceptible change. Isabel's aunt had toldher, without circumlocution, that she had played too ingeniousa part; and Madame Merle, who never quarrelled with any one,who appeared to think no one worth it, and who had performedthe miracle of living, more or less, for several years with Mrs.Touchett and showing no symptom of irritation—MadameMerle now took a very high tone and declared that this was anaccusation from which she couldn't stoop to defend herself.She added, however (without stooping), that her behaviour hadbeen only too simple, that she had believed only what she saw,that she saw Isabel was not eager to marry and Osmond noteager to please (his repeated visits had been nothing; he wasboring himself to death on his hill-top and he came merely foramusement). Isabel had kept her sentiments to herself, and herjourney to Greece and Egypt had effectually thrown dust in hercompanion's eyes. Madame Merle accepted the event—she wasunprepared to think of it as a scandal; but that she had playedany part in it, double or single, was an imputation againstwhich she proudly protested. It was doubtless in consequenceof Mrs. Touchett's attitude, and of the injury it offered to habitsconsecrated by many charming seasons, that Madame Merlehad, after this, chosen to pass many months in England, whereher credit was quite unimpaired. Mrs. Touchett had done her awrong; there are some things that can't be forgiven. But Ma-dame Merle suffered in silence; there was always somethingexquisite in her dignity.

Ralph, as I say, had wished to see for himself; but while en-gaged in this pursuit he had yet felt afresh what a fool he had

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been to put the girl on her guard. He had played the wrongcard, and now he had lost the game. He should see nothing, heshould learn nothing; for him she would always wear a mask.His true line would have been to profess delight in her union,so that later, when, as Ralph phrased it, the bottom should fallout of it, she might have the pleasure of saying to him that hehad been a goose. He would gladly have consented to pass fora goose in order to know Isabel's real situation. At present,however, she neither taunted him with his fallacies nor preten-ded that her own confidence was justified; if she wore a maskit completely covered her face. There was something fixed andmechanical in the serenity painted on it; this was not an ex-pression, Ralph said— it was a representation, it was even anadvertisement. She had lost her child; that was a sorrow, but itwas a sorrow she scarcely spoke of; there was more to sayabout it than she could say to Ralph. It belonged to the past,moreover; it had occurred six months before and she hadalready laid aside the tokens of mourning. She appeared to beleading the life of the world; Ralph heard her spoken of as hav-ing a "charming position." He observed that she produced theimpression of being peculiarly enviable, that it was supposed,among many people, to be a privilege even to know her. Herhouse was not open to every one, and she had an evening inthe week to which people were not invited as a matter ofcourse. She lived with a certain magnificence, but you neededto be a member of her circle to perceive it; for there was noth-ing to gape at, nothing to criticise, nothing even to admire, inthe daily proceedings of Mr. and Mrs. Osmond. Ralph, in allthis, recognised the hand of the master; for he knew that Isabelhad no faculty for producing studied impressions. She struckhim as having a great love of movement, of gaiety, of latehours, of long rides, of fatigue; an eagerness to be entertained,to be interested, even to be bored, to make acquaintances, tosee people who were talked about, to explore the neighbour-hood of Rome, to enter into relation with certain of the musti-est relics of its old society. In all this there was much less dis-crimination than in that desire for comprehensiveness of devel-opment on which he had been used to exercise his wit. Therewas a kind of violence in some of her impulses, of crudity insome of her experiments, which took him by surprise: it

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seemed to him that she even spoke faster, moved faster,breathed faster, than before her marriage. Certainly she hadfallen into exaggerations—she who used to care so much forthe pure truth; and whereas of old she had a great delight ingood-humoured argument, in intellectual play (she neverlooked so charming as when in the genial heat of discussionshe received a crushing blow full in the face and brushed itaway as a feather), she appeared now to think there was noth-ing worth people's either differing about or agreeing upon. Ofold she had been curious, and now she was indifferent, and yetin spite of her indifference her activity was greater than ever.Slender still, but lovelier than before, she had gained no greatmaturity of aspect; yet there was an amplitude and a brilliancyin her personal arrangements that gave a touch of insolence toher beauty. Poor human-hearted Isabel, what perversity hadbitten her? Her light step drew a mass of drapery behind it;her intelligent head sustained a majesty of ornament. The free,keen girl had become quite another person; what he saw wasthe fine lady who was supposed to represent something. Whatdid Isabel represent? Ralph asked himself; and he could onlyanswer by saying that she represented Gilbert Osmond. "Goodheavens, what a function!" he then woefully exclaimed. He waslost in wonder at the mystery of things.

He recognised Osmond, as I say; he recognised him at everyturn. He saw how he kept all things within limits; how he ad-justed, regulated, animated their manner of life. Osmond wasin his element; at last he had material to work with. He alwayshad an eye to effect, and his effects were deeply calculated.They were produced by no vulgar means, but the motive wasas vulgar as the art was great. To surround his interior with asort of invidious sanctity, to tantalise society with a sense ofexclusion, to make people believe his house was different fromevery other, to impart to the face that he presented to theworld a cold originality—this was the ingenious effort of thepersonage to whom Isabel had attributed a superior morality."He works with superior material," Ralph said to himself; "it'srich abundance compared with his former resources." Ralphwas a clever man; but Ralph had never—to his ownsense—been so clever as when he observed, in petto, that un-der the guise of caring only for intrinsic values Osmond lived

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exclusively for the world. Far from being its master as he pre-tended to be, he was its very humble servant, and the degreeof its attention was his only measure of success. He lived withhis eye on it from morning till night, and the world was so stu-pid it never suspected the trick. Everything he did waspose—pose so subtly considered that if one were not on thelookout one mistook it for impulse. Ralph had never met a manwho lived so much in the land of consideration. His tastes, hisstudies, his accomplishments, his collections, were all for apurpose. His life on his hill-top at Florence had been the con-scious attitude of years. His solitude, his ennui, his love for hisdaughter, his good manners, his bad manners, were so manyfeatures of a mental image constantly present to him as a mod-el of impertinence and mystification. His ambition was not toplease the world, but to please himself by exciting the world'scuriosity and then declining to satisfy it. It had made him feelgreat, ever, to play the world a trick. The thing he had done inhis life most directly to please himself was his marrying MissArcher; though in this case indeed the gullible world was in amanner embodied in poor Isabel, who had been mystified tothe top of her bent. Ralph of course found a fitness in beingconsistent; he had embraced a creed, and as he had sufferedfor it he could not in honour forsake it. I give this little sketchof its articles for what they may at the time have been worth. Itwas certain that he was very skilful in fitting the facts to histheory—even the fact that during the month he spent in Romeat this period the husband of the woman he loved appeared toregard him not in the least as an enemy.

For Gilbert Osmond Ralph had not now that importance. Itwas not that he had the importance of a friend; it was ratherthat he had none at all. He was Isabel's cousin and he wasrather unpleasantly ill—it was on this basis that Osmondtreated with him. He made the proper enquiries, asked abouthis health, about Mrs. Touchett, about his opinion of winter cli-mates, whether he were comfortable at his hotel. He addressedhim, on the few occasions of their meeting, not a word that wasnot necessary; but his manner had always the urbanity properto conscious success in the presence of conscious failure. Forall this, Ralph had had, toward the end, a sharp inward visionof Osmond's making it of small ease to his wife that she should

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continue to receive Mr. Touchett. He was not jealous—he hadnot that excuse; no one could be jealous of Ralph. But he madeIsabel pay for her old-time kindness, of which so much was stillleft; and as Ralph had no idea of her paying too much, so whenhis suspicion had become sharp, he had taken himself off. Indoing so he had deprived Isabel of a very interesting occupa-tion: she had been constantly wondering what fine principlewas keeping him alive. She had decided that it was his love ofconversation; his conversation had been better than ever. Hehad given up walking; be was no longer a humorous stroller.He sat all day in a chair —almost any chair would serve, andwas so dependent on what you would do for him that, had nothis talk been highly contemplative, you might have thought hewas blind. The reader already knows more about him than Isa-bel was ever to know, and the reader may therefore be giventhe key to the mystery. What kept Ralph alive was simply thefact that he had not yet seen enough of the person in the worldin whom he was most interested: he was not yet satisfied.There was more to come; he couldn't make up his mind to losethat. He wanted to see what she would make of her hus-band—or what her husband would make of her. This was onlythe first act of the drama, and he was determined to sit out theperformance. His determination had held good; it had kept himgoing some eighteen months more, till the time of his return toRome with Lord Warburton. It had given him indeed such anair of intending to live indefinitely that Mrs. Touchett, thoughmore accessible to confusions of thought in the matter of thisstrange, unremunerative—and unremunerated—son of hersthan she had ever been before, had, as we have learned, notscrupled to embark for a distant land. If Ralph had been keptalive by suspense it was with a good deal of the same emo-tion—the excitement of wondering in what state she shouldfind him—that Isabel mounted to his apartment the day afterLord Warburton had notified her of his arrival in Rome.

She spent an hour with him; it was the first of several visits.Gilbert Osmond called on him punctually, and on their sendingtheir carriage for him Ralph came more than once to PalazzoRoccanera. A fortnight elapsed, at the end of which Ralph an-nounced to Lord Warburton that he thought after all hewouldn't go to Sicily. The two men had been dining together

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after a day spent by the latter in ranging about the Campagna.They had left the table, and Warburton, before the chimney,was lighting a cigar, which he instantly removed from his lips.

"Won't go to Sicily? Where then will you go?""Well, I guess I won't go anywhere," said Ralph, from the

sofa, all shamelessly."Do you mean you'll return to England?""Oh dear no; I'll stay in Rome.""Rome won't do for you. Rome's not warm enough.""It will have to do. I'll make it do. See how well I've been."Lord Warburton looked at him a while, puffing a cigar and as

if trying to see it. "You've been better than you were on thejourney, certainly. I wonder how you lived through that. But Idon't understand your condition. I recommend you to trySicily."

"I can't try," said poor Ralph. "I've done trying. I can't movefurther. I can't face that journey. Fancy me between Scylla andCharybdis! I don't want to die on the Sicilian plains—to besnatched away, like Proserpine in the same locality, to thePlutonian shades."

"What the deuce then did you come for?" his lordshipenquired.

"Because the idea took me. I see it won't do. It really doesn'tmatter where I am now. I've exhausted all remedies, I've swal-lowed all climates. As I'm here I'll stay. I haven't a single cous-in in Sicily—much less a married one."

"Your cousin's certainly an inducement. But what does thedoctor say?"

"I haven't asked him, and I don't care a fig. If I die here Mrs.Osmond will bury me. But I shall not die here."

"I hope not." Lord Warburton continued to smoke reflect-ively. "Well, I must say," he resumed, "for myself I'm very gladyou don't insist on Sicily. I had a horror of that journey."

"Ah, but for you it needn't have mattered. I had no idea ofdragging you in my train."

"I certainly didn't mean to let you go alone.""My dear Warburton, I never expected you to come further

than this," Ralph cried."I should have gone with you and seen you settled," said Lord

Warburton.

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"You're a very good Christian. You're a very kind man.""Then I should have come back here.""And then you'd have gone to England.""No, no; I should have stayed.""Well," said Ralph, "if that's what we are both up to, I don't

see where Sicily comes in!"His companion was silent; he sat staring at the fire. At last,

looking up, "I say, tell me this," he broke out; "did you reallymean to go to Sicily when we started?"

"Ah, vous m'en demandez trop! Let me put a question first.Did you come with me quite—platonically?"

"I don't know what you mean by that. I wanted to comeabroad."

"I suspect we've each been playing our little game.""Speak for yourself. I made no secret whatever of my desir-

ing to be here a while.""Yes, I remember you said you wished to see the Minister of

Foreign Affairs.""I've seen him three times. He's very amusing.""I think you've forgotten what you came for," said Ralph."Perhaps I have," his companion answered rather gravely.These two were gentlemen of a race which is not distin-

guished by the absence of reserve, and they had travelled to-gether from London to Rome without an allusion to mattersthat were uppermost in the mind of each. There was an oldsubject they had once discussed, but it had lost its recognisedplace in their attention, and even after their arrival in Rome,where many things led back to it, they had kept the same half-diffident, half-confident silence.

"I recommend you to get the doctor's consent, all the same,"Lord Warburton went on, abruptly, after an interval.

"The doctor's consent will spoil it. I never have it when I canhelp it."

"What then does Mrs. Osmond think?" Ralph's friend deman-ded. I've not told her. She'll probably say that Rome's too coldand even offer to go with me to Catania. She's capable of that."

"In your place I should like it.""Her husband won't like it.""Ah well, I can fancy that; though it seems to me you're not

bound to mind his likings. They're his affair."

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"I don't want to make any more trouble between them," saidRalph.

"Is there so much already?""There's complete preparation for it. Her going off with me

would make the explosion. Osmond isn't fond of his wife'scousin."

"Then of course he'd make a row. But won't he make a row ifyou stop here?"

"That's what I want to see. He made one the last time I wasin Rome, and then I thought it my duty to disappear. Now Ithink it's my duty to stop and defend her."

"My dear Touchett, your defensive powers—!" Lord Warbur-ton began with a smile. But he saw something in hiscompanion's face that checked him. "Your duty, in thesepremises, seems to me rather a nice question," he observedinstead.

Ralph for a short time answered nothing. "It's true that mydefensive powers are small," he returned at last; "but as my ag-gressive ones are still smaller Osmond may after all not thinkme worth his gunpowder. At any rate," he added, "there arethings I'm curious to see."

"You're sacrificing your health to your curiosity then?""I'm not much interested in my health, and I'm deeply inter-

ested in Mrs. Osmond.""So am I. But not as I once was," Lord Warburton added

quickly. This was one of the allusions he had not hitherto foundoccasion to make.

"Does she strike you as very happy?" Ralph enquired, em-boldened by this confidence.

"Well, I don't know; I've hardly thought. She told me the oth-er night she was happy."

"Ah, she told YOU, of course," Ralph exclaimed, smiling."I don't know that. It seems to me I was rather the sort of

person she might have complained to.""Complained? She'll never complain. She has done it—what

she HAS done—and she knows it. She'll complain to you leastof all. She's very careful."

"She needn't be. I don't mean to make love to her again.""I'm delighted to hear it. There can be no doubt at least of

YOUR duty."

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"Ah no," said Lord Warburton gravely; "none!""Permit me to ask," Ralph went on, "whether it's to bring out

the fact that you don't mean to make love to her that you're sovery civil to the little girl?"

Lord Warburton gave a slight start; he got up and stood be-fore the fire, looking at it hard. "Does that strike you as veryridiculous?"

"Ridiculous? Not in the least, if you really like her.""I think her a delightful little person. I don't know when a girl

of that age has pleased me more.""She's a charming creature. Ah, she at least is genuine.""Of course there's the difference in our ages—more than

twenty years.""My dear Warburton," said Ralph, "are you serious?""Perfectly serious—as far as I've got.""I'm very glad. And, heaven help us," cried Ralph, "how

cheered-up old Osmond will be!"His companion frowned. "I say, don't spoil it. I shouldn't pro-

pose for his daughter to please HIM.""He'll have the perversity to be pleased all the same.""He's not so fond of me as that," said his lordship."As that? My dear Warburton, the drawback of your position

is that people needn't be fond of you at all to wish to be con-nected with you. Now, with me in such a case, I should havethe happy confidence that they loved me."

Lord Warburton seemed scarcely in the mood for doingjustice to general axioms—he was thinking of a special case."Do you judge she'll be pleased?"

"The girl herself? Delighted, surely.""No, no; I mean Mrs. Osmond."Ralph looked at him a moment. "My dear fellow, what has

she to do with it?""Whatever she chooses. She's very fond of Pansy.""Very true—very true." And Ralph slowly got up. "It's an in-

teresting question—how far her fondness for Pansy will carryher." He stood there a moment with his hands in his pocketsand rather a clouded brow. "I hope, you know, that you'revery—very sure. The deuce!" he broke off. "I don't know how tosay it."

"Yes, you do; you know how to say everything."

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"Well, it's awkward. I hope you're sure that among MissOsmond's merits her being—a—so near her stepmother isn't aleading one?"

"Good heavens, Touchett!" cried Lord Warburton angrily,"for what do you take me?"

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Chapter 40Isabel had not seen much of Madame Merle since her mar-riage, this lady having indulged in frequent absences fromRome. At one time she had spent six months in England; at an-other she had passed a portion of a winter in Paris. She hadmade numerous visits to distant friends and gave countenanceto the idea that for the future she should be a less inveterateRoman than in the past. As she had been inveterate in the pastonly in the sense of constantly having an apartment in one ofthe sunniest niches of the Pincian—an apartment which oftenstood empty—this suggested a prospect of almost constant ab-sence; a danger which Isabel at one period had been much in-clined to deplore. Familiarity had modified in some degree herfirst impression of Madame Merle, but it had not essentiallyaltered it; there was still much wonder of admiration in it. Thatpersonage was armed at all points; it was a pleasure to see acharacter so completely equipped for the social battle. She car-ried her flag discreetly, but her weapons were polished steel,and she used them with a skill which struck Isabel as more andmore that of a veteran. She was never weary, never overcomewith disgust; she never appeared to need rest or consolation.She had her own ideas; she had of old exposed a great many ofthem to Isabel, who knew also that under an appearance ofextreme self-control her highly-cultivated friend concealed arich sensibility. But her will was mistress of her life; there wassomething gallant in the way she kept going. It was as if shehad learned the secret of it—as if the art of life were some clev-er trick she had guessed. Isabel, as she herself grew older, be-came acquainted with revulsions, with disgusts; there weredays when the world looked black and she asked herself withsome sharpness what it was that she was pretending to live for.Her old habit had been to live by enthusiasm, to fall in lovewith suddenly-perceived possibilities, with the idea of some

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new adventure. As a younger person she had been used to pro-ceed from one little exaltation to the other: there were scarcelyany dull places between. But Madame Merle had suppressedenthusiasm; she fell in love now-a-days with nothing; she livedentirely by reason and by wisdom. There were hours when Isa-bel would have given anything for lessons in this art; if her bril-liant friend had been near she would have made an appeal toher. She had become aware more than before of the advantageof being like that —of having made one's self a firm surface, asort of corselet of silver.

But, as I say, it was not till the winter during which we latelyrenewed acquaintance with our heroine that the personage inquestion made again a continuous stay in Rome. Isabel nowsaw more of her than she had done since her marriage; but bythis time Isabel's needs and inclinations had considerablychanged. It was not at present to Madame Merle that shewould have applied for instruction; she had lost the desire toknow this lady's clever trick. If she had troubles she must keepthem to herself, and if life was difficult it would not make iteasier to confess herself beaten. Madame Merle was doubtlessof great use to herself and an ornament to any circle; but wasshe—would she be —of use to others in periods of refined em-barrassment? The best way to profit by her friend—this indeedIsabel had always thought—was to imitate her, to be as firmand bright as she. She recognised no embarrassments, and Isa-bel, considering this fact, determined for the fiftieth time tobrush aside her own. It seemed to her too, on the renewal of anintercourse which had virtually been interrupted, that her oldally was different, was almost detached—pushing to the ex-treme a certain rather artificial fear of being indiscreet. RalphTouchett, we know, had been of the opinion that she was proneto exaggeration, to forcing the note—was apt, in the vulgarphrase, to overdo it. Isabel had never admitted thischarge—had never indeed quite understood it; MadameMerle's conduct, to her perception, always bore the stamp ofgood taste, was always "quiet." But in this matter of not wish-ing to intrude upon the inner life of the Osmond family it at lastoccurred to our young woman that she overdid a little. That ofcourse was not the best taste; that was rather violent. She re-membered too much that Isabel was married; that she had now

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other interests; that though she, Madame Merle, had knownGilbert Osmond and his little Pansy very well, better almostthan any one, she was not after all of the inner circle. She wason her guard; she never spoke of their affairs till she wasasked, even pressed—as when her opinion was wanted; shehad a dread of seeming to meddle. Madame Merle was as can-did as we know, and one day she candidly expressed this dreadto Isabel.

"I MUST be on my guard," she said; "I might so easily,without suspecting it, offend you. You would be right to be of-fended, even if my intention should have been of the purest. Imust not forget that I knew your husband long before you did;I must not let that betray me. If you were a silly woman youmight be jealous. You're not a silly woman; I know that per-fectly. But neither am I; therefore I'm determined not to get in-to trouble. A little harm's very soon done; a mistake's made be-fore one knows it. Of course if I had wished to make love toyour husband I had ten years to do it in, and nothing to pre-vent; so it isn't likely I shall begin to-day, when I'm so muchless attractive than I was. But if I were to annoy you by seem-ing to take a place that doesn't belong to me, you wouldn'tmake that reflection; you'd simply say I was forgetting certaindifferences. I'm determined not to forget them. Certainly agood friend isn't always thinking of that; one doesn't suspectone's friends of injustice. I don't suspect you, my dear, in theleast; but I suspect human nature. Don't think I make myselfuncomfortable; I'm not always watching myself. I think I suffi-ciently prove it in talking to you as I do now. All I wish to sayis, however, that if you were to be jealous—that's the form itwould take—I should be sure to think it was a little my fault. Itcertainly wouldn't be your husband's."

Isabel had had three years to think over Mrs. Touchett's the-ory that Madame Merle had made Gilbert Osmond's marriage.We know how she had at first received it. Madame Merle mighthave made Gilbert Osmond's marriage, but she certainly hadnot made Isabel Archer's. That was the work of—Isabelscarcely knew what: of nature, providence, fortune, of theeternal mystery of things. It was true her aunt's complaint hadbeen not so much of Madame Merle's activity as of her dupli-city: she had brought about the strange event and then she had

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denied her guilt. Such guilt would not have been great, toIsabel's mind; she couldn't make a crime of Madame Merle'shaving been the producing cause of the most important friend-ship she had ever formed. This had occurred to her just beforeher marriage, after her little discussion with her aunt and at atime when she was still capable of that large inward reference,the tone almost of the philosophic historian, to her scant youngannals. If Madame Merle had desired her change of state shecould only say it had been a very happy thought. With her,moreover, she had been perfectly straightforward; she hadnever concealed her high opinion of Gilbert Osmond. Aftertheir union Isabel discovered that her husband took a less con-venient view of the matter; he seldom consented to finger, intalk, this roundest and smoothest bead of their social rosary."Don't you like Madame Merle?" Isabel had once said to him."She thinks a great deal of you."

"I'll tell you once for all," Osmond had answered. "I liked heronce better than I do to-day. I'm tired of her, and I'm ratherashamed of it. She's so almost unnaturally good! I'm glad she'snot in Italy; it makes for relaxation—for a sort of moral de-tente. Don't talk of her too much; it seems to bring her back.She'll come back in plenty of time."

Madame Merle, in fact, had come back before it was toolate—too late, I mean, to recover whatever advantage shemight have lost. But meantime, if, as I have said, she was sens-ibly different, Isabel's feelings were also not quite the same.Her consciousness of the situation was as acute as of old, but itwas much less satisfying. A dissatisfied mind, whatever else itmay miss, is rarely in want of reasons; they bloom as thick asbuttercups in June. The fact of Madame Merle's having had ahand in Gilbert Osmond's marriage ceased to be one of hertitles to consideration; it might have been written, after all,that there was not so much to thank her for. As time went onthere was less and less, and Isabel once said to herself thatperhaps without her these things would not have been. That re-flection indeed was instantly stifled; she knew an immediatehorror at having made it. "Whatever happens to me let me notbe unjust," she said; "let me bear my burdens myself and notshift them upon others!" This disposition was tested, eventu-ally, by that ingenious apology for her present conduct which

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Madame Merle saw fit to make and of which I have given asketch; for there was something irritating— there was almostan air of mockery—in her neat discriminations and clear con-victions. In Isabel's mind to-day there was nothing clear; therewas a confusion of regrets, a complication of fears. She felthelpless as she turned away from her friend, who had justmade the statements I have quoted: Madame Merle knew solittle what she was thinking of! She was herself moreover sounable to explain. Jealous of her—jealous of her with Gilbert?The idea just then suggested no near reality. She almostwished jealousy had been possible; it would have made in amanner for refreshment. Wasn't it in a manner one of thesymptoms of happiness? Madame Merle, however, was wise, sowise that she might have been pretending to know Isabel bet-ter than Isabel knew herself. This young woman had alwaysbeen fertile in resolutions —any of them of an elevated charac-ter; but at no period had they flourished (in the privacy of herheart) more richly than to-day. It is true that they all had afamily likeness; they might have been summed up in the de-termination that if she was to be unhappy it should not be by afault of her own. Her poor winged spirit had always had a greatdesire to do its best, and it had not as yet been seriously dis-couraged. It wished, therefore, to hold fast to justice—not topay itself by petty revenges. To associate Madame Merle withits disappointment would be a petty revenge—especially as thepleasure to be derived from that would be perfectly insincere.It might feed her sense of bitterness, but it would not loosenher bonds. It was impossible to pretend that she had not actedwith her eyes open; if ever a girl was a free agent she hadbeen. A girl in love was doubtless not a free agent; but the solesource of her mistake had been within herself. There had beenno plot, no snare; she had looked and considered and chosen.When a woman had made such a mistake, there was only oneway to repair it—just immensely (oh, with the highestgrandeur!) to accept it. One folly was enough, especially whenit was to last for ever; a second one would not much set it off.In this vow of reticence there was a certain nobleness whichkept Isabel going; but Madame Merle had been right, for allthat, in taking her precautions.

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One day about a month after Ralph Touchett's arrival inRome Isabel came back from a walk with Pansy. It was not onlya part of her general determination to be just that she was atpresent very thankful for Pansy—it was also a part of her ten-derness for things that were pure and weak. Pansy was dear toher, and there was nothing else in her life that had the right-ness of the young creature's attachment or the sweetness ofher own clearness about it. It was like a soft presence—like asmall hand in her own; on Pansy's part it was more than an af-fection—it was a kind of ardent coercive faith. On her own sideher sense of the girl's dependence was more than a pleasure; itoperated as a definite reason when motives threatened to failher. She had said to herself that we must take our duty wherewe find it, and that we must look for it as much as possible.Pansy's sympathy was a direct admonition; it seemed to saythat here was an opportunity, not eminent perhaps, but unmis-takeable. Yet an opportunity for what Isabel could hardly havesaid; in general, to be more for the child than the child wasable to be for herself. Isabel could have smiled, in these days,to remember that her little companion had once been ambigu-ous, for she now perceived that Pansy's ambiguities weresimply her own grossness of vision. She had been unable to be-lieve any one could care so much—so extraordinarily much—toplease. But since then she had seen this delicate faculty in op-eration, and now she knew what to think of it. It was the wholecreature—it was a sort of genius. Pansy had no pride to inter-fere with it, and though she was constantly extending her con-quests she took no credit for them. The two were constantly to-gether; Mrs. Osmond was rarely seen without her stepdaugh-ter. Isabel liked her company; it had the effect of one's carry-ing a nosegay composed all of the same flower. And then not toneglect Pansy, not under any provocation to neglect her—thisshe had made an article of religion. The young girl had everyappearance of being happier in Isabel's society than in that ofany one save her father,—whom she admired with an intensityjustified by the fact that, as paternity was an exquisite pleasureto Gilbert Osmond, he had always been luxuriously mild. Isabelknew how Pansy liked to be with her and how she studied themeans of pleasing her. She had decided that the best way ofpleasing her was negative, and consisted in not giving her

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trouble—a conviction which certainly could have had no refer-ence to trouble already existing. She was therefore ingeniouslypassive and almost imaginatively docile; she was careful evento moderate the eagerness with which she assented to Isabel'spropositions and which might have implied that she could havethought otherwise. She never interrupted, never asked socialquestions, and though she delighted in approbation, to thepoint of turning pale when it came to her, never held out herhand for it. She only looked toward it wistfully—an attitudewhich, as she grew older, made her eyes the prettiest in theworld. When during the second winter at Palazzo Roccanerashe began to go to parties, to dances, she always, at a reason-able hour, lest Mrs. Osmond should be tired, was the first topropose departure. Isabel appreciated the sacrifice of the latedances, for she knew her little companion had a passionatepleasure in this exercise, taking her steps to the music like aconscientious fairy. Society, moreover, had no drawbacks forher; she liked even the tiresome parts—the heat of ball-rooms,the dulness of dinners, the crush at the door, the awkwardwaiting for the carriage. During the day, in this vehicle, besideher stepmother, she sat in a small fixed, appreciative posture,bending forward and faintly smiling, as if she had been takento drive for the first time.

On the day I speak of they had been driven out of one of thegates of the city and at the end of half an hour had left the car-riage to await them by the roadside while they walked awayover the short grass of the Campagna, which even in thewinter months is sprinkled with delicate flowers. This was al-most a daily habit with Isabel, who was fond of a walk and hada swift length of step, though not so swift a one as on her firstcoming to Europe. It was not the form of exercise that Pansyloved best, but she liked it, because she liked everything; andshe moved with a shorter undulation beside her father's wife,who afterwards, on their return to Rome, paid a tribute to herpreferences by making the circuit of the Pincian or the VillaBorghese. She had gathered a handful of flowers in a sunnyhollow, far from the walls of Rome, and on reaching PalazzoRoccanera she went straight to her room, to put them into wa-ter. Isabel passed into the drawing-room, the one she herselfusually occupied, the second in order from the large ante-

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chamber which was entered from the staircase and in whicheven Gilbert Osmond's rich devices had not been able to cor-rect a look of rather grand nudity. Just beyond the threshold ofthe drawing-room she stopped short, the reason for her doingso being that she had received an impression. The impressionhad, in strictness, nothing unprecedented; but she felt it assomething new, and the soundlessness of her step gave hertime to take in the scene before she interrupted it. MadameMerle was there in her bonnet, and Gilbert Osmond was talk-ing to her; for a minute they were unaware she had come in.Isabel had often seen that before, certainly; but what she hadnot seen, or at least had not noticed, was that their colloquyhad for the moment converted itself into a sort of familiar si-lence, from which she instantly perceived that her entrancewould startle them. Madame Merle was standing on the rug, alittle way from the fire; Osmond was in a deep chair, leaningback and looking at her. Her head was erect, as usual, but hereyes were bent on his. What struck Isabel first was that he wassitting while Madame Merle stood; there was an anomaly inthis that arrested her. Then she perceived that they had ar-rived at a desultory pause in their exchange of ideas and weremusing, face to face, with the freedom of old friends who some-times exchange ideas without uttering them. There was noth-ing to shock in this; they were old friends in fact. But the thingmade an image, lasting only a moment, like a sudden flicker oflight. Their relative positions, their absorbed mutual gaze,struck her as something detected. But it was all over by thetime she had fairly seen it. Madame Merle had seen her andhad welcomed her without moving; her husband, on the otherhand, had instantly jumped up. He presently murmuredsomething about wanting a walk and, after having asked theirvisitor to excuse him, left the room.

"I came to see you, thinking you would have come in; and asyou hadn't I waited for you," Madame Merle said.

"Didn't he ask you to sit down?" Isabel asked with a smile.Madame Merle looked about her. "Ah, it's very true; I was

going away.""You must stay now.""Certainly. I came for a reason; I've something on my mind."

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"I've told you that before," Isabel said—"that it takessomething extraordinary to bring you to this house."

"And you know what I've told YOU; that whether I come orwhether I stay away, I've always the same motive—the affec-tion I bear you."

"Yes, you've told me that.""You look just now as if you didn't believe it," said Madame

Merle."Ah," Isabel answered, "the profundity of your motives, that's

the last thing I doubt!""You doubt sooner of the sincerity of my words."Isabel shook her head gravely. "I know you've always been

kind to me.""As often as you would let me. You don't always take it; then

one has to let you alone. It's not to do you a kindness, however,that I've come to-day; it's quite another affair. I've come to getrid of a trouble of my own—to make it over to you. I've beentalking to your husband about it."

"I'm surprised at that; he doesn't like troubles.""Especially other people's; I know very well. But neither do

you, I suppose. At any rate, whether you do or not, you musthelp me. It's about poor Mr. Rosier."

"Ah," said Isabel reflectively, "it's his trouble then, notyours."

"He has succeeded in saddling me with it. He comes to seeme ten times a week, to talk about Pansy."

"Yes, he wants to marry her. I know all about it."Madame Merle hesitated. "I gathered from your husband

that perhaps you didn't.""How should he know what I know? He has never spoken to

me of the matter.""It's probably because he doesn't know how to speak of it.""It's nevertheless the sort of question in which he's rarely at

fault.""Yes, because as a general thing he knows perfectly well

what to think. To-day he doesn't.""Haven't you been telling him?" Isabel asked.Madame Merle gave a bright, voluntary smile. "Do you know

you're a little dry?""Yes; I can't help it. Mr. Rosier has also talked to me."

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"In that there's some reason. You're so near the child.""Ah," said Isabel, "for all the comfort I've given him! If you

think me dry, I wonder what HE thinks.""I believe he thinks you can do more than you have done.""I can do nothing.""You can do more at least than I. I don't know what mysteri-

ous connection he may have discovered between me andPansy; but he came to me from the first, as if I held his fortunein my hand. Now he keeps coming back, to spur me up, toknow what hope there is, to pour out his feelings."

"He's very much in love," said Isabel."Very much—for him.""Very much for Pansy, you might say as well."Madame Merle dropped her eyes a moment. "Don't you think

she's attractive?""The dearest little person possible—but very limited.""She ought to be all the easier for Mr. Rosier to love. Mr.

Rosier's not unlimited.""No," said Isabel, "he has about the extent of one's pocket-

handkerchief—the small ones with lace borders." Her humourhad lately turned a good deal to sarcasm, but in a moment shewas ashamed of exercising it on so innocent an object asPansy's suitor. "He's very kind, very honest," she presently ad-ded; "and he's not such a fool as he seems."

"He assures me that she delights in him," said MadameMerle.

"I don't know; I've not asked her.""You've never sounded her a little?""It's not my place; it's her father's.""Ah, you're too literal!" said Madame Merle."I must judge for myself."Madame Merle gave her smile again. "It isn't easy to help

you.""To help me?" said Isabel very seriously. "What do you

mean?""It's easy to displease you. Don't you see how wise I am to be

careful? I notify you, at any rate, as I notified Osmond, that Iwash my hands of the love-affairs of Miss Pansy and Mr. Ed-ward Rosier. Je n'y peux rien, moi! I can't talk to Pansy about

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him. Especially," added Madame Merle, "as I don't think him aparagon of husbands."

Isabel reflected a little; after which, with a smile, "You don'twash your hands then!" she said. After which again she addedin another tone: "You can't—you're too much interested."

Madame Merle slowly rose; she had given Isabel a look asrapid as the intimation that had gleamed before our heroine afew moments before. Only this time the latter saw nothing."Ask him the next time, and you'll see."

"I can't ask him; he has ceased to come to the house. Gilberthas let him know that he's not welcome."

"Ah yes," said Madame Merle, "I forgot that—though it's theburden of his lamentation. He says Osmond has insulted him.All the same," she went on, "Osmond doesn't dislike him somuch as he thinks." She had got up as if to close the conversa-tion, but she lingered, looking about her, and had evidentlymore to say. Isabel perceived this and even saw the point shehad in view; but Isabel also had her own reasons for not open-ing the way.

"That must have pleased him, if you've told him," sheanswered, smiling.

"Certainly I've told him; as far as that goes I've encouragedhim. I've preached patience, have said that his case isn't des-perate if he'll only hold his tongue and be quiet. Unfortunatelyhe has taken it into his head to be jealous."

"Jealous?""Jealous of Lord Warburton, who, he says, is always here."Isabel, who was tired, had remained sitting; but at this she

also rose. "Ah!" she exclaimed simply, moving slowly to thefireplace. Madame Merle observed her as she passed and whileshe stood a moment before the mantel-glass and pushed intoits place a wandering tress of hair.

"Poor Mr. Rosier keeps saying there's nothing impossible inLord Warburton's falling in love with Pansy," Madame Merlewent on. Isabel was silent a little; she turned away from theglass. "It's true—there's nothing impossible," she returned atlast, gravely and more gently.

"So I've had to admit to Mr. Rosier. So, too, your husbandthinks."

"That I don't know."

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"Ask him and you'll see.""I shall not ask him," said Isabel."Pardon me; I forgot you had pointed that out. Of course,"

Madame Merle added, "you've had infinitely more observationof Lord Warburton's behaviour than I."

"I see no reason why I shouldn't tell you that he likes mystepdaughter very much."

Madame Merle gave one of her quick looks again. "Likes her,you mean—as Mr. Rosier means?"

"I don't know how Mr. Rosier means; but Lord Warburtonhas let me know that he's charmed with Pansy."

"And you've never told Osmond?" This observation was im-mediate, precipitate; it almost burst from Madame Merle's lips.

Isabel's eyes rested on her. "I suppose he'll know in time;Lord Warburton has a tongue and knows how to expresshimself."

Madame Merle instantly became conscious that she hadspoken more quickly than usual, and the reflection brought thecolour to her cheek. She gave the treacherous impulse time tosubside and then said as if she had been thinking it over alittle: "That would be better than marrying poor Mr. Rosier."

"Much better, I think.""It would be very delightful; it would be a great marriage. It's

really very kind of him.""Very kind of him?""To drop his eyes on a simple little girl.""I don't see that.""It's very good of you. But after all, Pansy Osmond—""After all, Pansy Osmond's the most attractive person he has

ever known!" Isabel exclaimed.Madame Merle stared, and indeed she was justly bewildered.

"Ah, a moment ago I thought you seemed rather to disparageher."

"I said she was limited. And so she is. And so's LordWarburton."

"So are we all, if you come to that. If it's no more than Pansydeserves, all the better. But if she fixes her affections on Mr.Rosier I won't admit that she deserves it. That will be tooperverse."

"Mr. Rosier's a nuisance!" Isabel cried abruptly.

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"I quite agree with you, and I'm delighted to know that I'mnot expected to feed his flame. For the future, when he calls onme, my door shall be closed to him." And gathering her mantletogether Madame Merle prepared to depart. She was checked,however, on her progress to the door, by an inconsequent re-quest from Isabel.

"All the same, you know, be kind to him."She lifted her shoulders and eyebrows and stood looking at

her friend. "I don't understand your contradictions! Decidedly Ishan't be kind to him, for it will be a false kindness. I want tosee her married to Lord Warburton."

"You had better wait till he asks her.""If what you say's true, he'll ask her. Especially," said Ma-

dame Merle in a moment, "if you make him.""If I make him?""It's quite in your power. You've great influence with him."Isabel frowned a little. "Where did you learn that?""Mrs. Touchett told me. Not you—never!" said Madame

Merle, smiling."I certainly never told you anything of the sort.""You MIGHT have done so—so far as opportunity

went—when we were by way of being confidential with eachother. But you really told me very little; I've often thought sosince."

Isabel had thought so too, and sometimes with a certain sat-isfaction. But she didn't admit it now—perhaps because shewished not to appear to exult in it. "You seem to have had anexcellent informant in my aunt," she simply returned.

"She let me know you had declined an offer of marriage fromLord Warburton, because she was greatly vexed and was full ofthe subject. Of course I think you've done better in doing asyou did. But if you wouldn't marry Lord Warburton yourself,make him the reparation of helping him to marry some oneelse."

Isabel listened to this with a face that persisted in not reflect-ing the bright expressiveness of Madame Merle's. But in a mo-ment she said, reasonably and gently enough: "I should be veryglad indeed if, as regards Pansy, it could be arranged." Uponwhich her companion, who seemed to regard this as a speech

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of good omen, embraced her more tenderly than might havebeen expected and triumphantly withdrew.

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Chapter 41Osmond touched on this matter that evening for the first time;coming very late into the drawing-room, where she was sittingalone. They had spent the evening at home, and Pansy hadgone to bed; he himself had been sitting since dinner in a smallapartment in which he had arranged his books and which hecalled his study. At ten o'clock Lord Warburton had come in, ashe always did when he knew from Isabel that she was to be athome; he was going somewhere else and he sat for half anhour. Isabel, after asking him for news of Ralph, said very littleto him, on purpose; she wished him to talk with her stepdaugh-ter. She pretended to read; she even went after a little to thepiano; she asked herself if she mightn't leave the room. Shehad come little by little to think well of the idea of Pansy's be-coming the wife of the master of beautiful Lockleigh, though atfirst it had not presented itself in a manner to excite her enthu-siasm. Madame Merle, that afternoon, had applied the matchto an accumulation of inflammable material. When Isabel wasunhappy she always looked about her—partly from impulse andpartly by theory—for some form of positive exertion. She couldnever rid herself of the sense that unhappiness was a state ofdisease—of suffering as opposed to doing. To "do"—it hardlymattered what—would therefore be an escape, perhaps insome degree a remedy. Besides, she wished to convince herselfthat she had done everything possible to content her husband;she was determined not to be haunted by visions of his wife'slimpness under appeal. It would please him greatly to seePansy married to an English nobleman, and justly please him,since this nobleman was so sound a character. It seemed toIsabel that if she could make it her duty to bring about such anevent she should play the part of a good wife. She wanted to bethat; she wanted to be able to believe sincerely, and with proofof it, that she had been that. Then such an undertaking had

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other recommendations. It would occupy her, and she desiredoccupation. It would even amuse her, and if she could reallyamuse herself she perhaps might be saved. Lastly, it would bea service to Lord Warburton, who evidently pleased himselfgreatly with the charming girl. It was a little "weird" heshould—being what he was; but there was no accounting forsuch impressions. Pansy might captivate any one—any one atleast but Lord Warburton. Isabel would have thought her toosmall, too slight, perhaps even too artificial for that. There wasalways a little of the doll about her, and that was not what hehad been looking for. Still, who could say what men ever werelooking for? They looked for what they found; they knew whatpleased them only when they saw it. No theory was valid insuch matters, and nothing was more unaccountable or morenatural than anything else. If he had cared for HER it mightseem odd he should care for Pansy, who was so different; buthe had not cared for her so much as he had supposed. Or if hehad, he had completely got over it, and it was natural that, asthat affair had failed, he should think something of quite anoth-er sort might succeed. Enthusiasm, as I say, had not come atfirst to Isabel, but it came to-day and made her feel almosthappy. It was astonishing what happiness she could still find inthe idea of procuring a pleasure for her husband. It was a pity,however, that Edward Rosier had crossed their path!

At this reflection the light that had suddenly gleamed uponthat path lost something of its brightness. Isabel was unfortu-nately as sure that Pansy thought Mr. Rosier the nicest of allthe young men—as sure as if she had held an interview withher on the subject. It was very tiresome she should be so sure,when she had carefully abstained from informing herself; al-most as tiresome as that poor Mr. Rosier should have taken itinto his own head. He was certainly very inferior to Lord War-burton. It was not the difference in fortune so much as the dif-ference in the men; the young American was really so light aweight. He was much more of the type of the useless fine gen-tleman than the English nobleman. It was true that there wasno particular reason why Pansy should marry a statesman; still,if a statesman admired her, that was his affair, and she wouldmake a perfect little pearl of a peeress.

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It may seem to the reader that Mrs. Osmond had grown of asudden strangely cynical, for she ended by saying to herselfthat this difficulty could probably be arranged. An impedimentthat was embodied in poor Rosier could not anyhow present it-self as a dangerous one; there were always means of levellingsecondary obstacles. Isabel was perfectly aware that she hadnot taken the measure of Pansy's tenacity, which might proveto be inconveniently great; but she inclined to see her as ratherletting go, under suggestion, than as clutching under depreca-tion —since she had certainly the faculty of assent developed ina very much higher degree than that of protest. She wouldcling, yes, she would cling; but it really mattered to her verylittle what she clung to. Lord Warburton would do as well asMr. Rosier —especially as she seemed quite to like him; shehad expressed this sentiment to Isabel without a single reser-vation; she had said she thought his conversation most inter-esting—he had told her all about India. His manner to Pansyhad been of the rightest and easiest—Isabel noticed that forherself, as she also observed that he talked to her not in theleast in a patronising way, reminding himself of her youth andsimplicity, but quite as if she understood his subjects with thatsufficiency with which she followed those of the fashionable op-eras. This went far enough for attention to the music and thebarytone. He was careful only to be kind—he was as kind as hehad been to another fluttered young chit at Gardencourt. A girlmight well be touched by that; she remembered how she her-self had been touched, and said to herself that if she had beenas simple as Pansy the impression would have been deeperstill. She had not been simple when she refused him; that oper-ation had been as complicated as, later, her acceptance of Os-mond had been. Pansy, however, in spite of HER simplicity,really did understand, and was glad that Lord Warburtonshould talk to her, not about her partners and bouquets, butabout the state of Italy, the condition of the peasantry, thefamous grist-tax, the pellagra, his impressions of Roman soci-ety. She looked at him, as she drew her needle through hertapestry, with sweet submissive eyes, and when she loweredthem she gave little quiet oblique glances at his person, hishands, his feet, his clothes, as if she were considering him.Even his person, Isabel might have reminded her, was better

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than Mr. Rosier's. But Isabel contented herself at such mo-ments with wondering where this gentleman was; he came nomore at all to Palazzo Roccanera. It was surprising, as I say,the hold it had taken of her—the idea of assisting her husbandto be pleased.

It was surprising for a variety of reasons which I shallpresently touch upon. On the evening I speak of, while LordWarburton sat there, she had been on the point of taking thegreat step of going out of the room and leaving her compan-ions alone. I say the great step, because it was in this light thatGilbert Osmond would have regarded it, and Isabel was tryingas much as possible to take her husband's view. She succeededafter a fashion, but she fell short of the point I mention. Afterall she couldn't rise to it; something held her and made this im-possible. It was not exactly that it would be base or insidious;for women as a general thing practise such manoeuvres with aperfectly good conscience, and Isabel was instinctively muchmore true than false to the common genius of her sex. Therewas a vague doubt that interposed—a sense that she was notquite sure. So she remained in the drawing-room, and after awhile Lord Warburton went off to his party, of which he prom-ised to give Pansy a full account on the morrow. After he hadgone she wondered if she had prevented something whichwould have happened if she had absented herself for a quarterof an hour; and then she pronounced—always mentally—thatwhen their distinguished visitor should wish her to go away hewould easily find means to let her know it. Pansy said nothingwhatever about him after he had gone, and Isabel studiouslysaid nothing, as she had taken a vow of reserve until after heshould have declared himself. He was a little longer in comingto this than might seem to accord with the description he hadgiven Isabel of his feelings. Pansy went to bed, and Isabel hadto admit that she could not now guess what her stepdaughterwas thinking of. Her transparent little companion was for themoment not to be seen through.

She remained alone, looking at the fire, until, at the end ofhalf an hour, her husband came in. He moved about a while insilence and then sat down; he looked at the fire like herself.But she now had transferred her eyes from the flickering flamein the chimney to Osmond's face, and she watched him while

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he kept his silence. Covert observation had become a habitwith her; an instinct, of which it is not an exaggeration to saythat it was allied to that of self-defence, had made it habitual.She wished as much as possible to know his thoughts, to knowwhat he would say, beforehand, so that she might prepare heranswer. Preparing answers had not been her strong point ofold; she had rarely in this respect got further than thinking af-terwards of clever things she might have said. But she hadlearned caution—learned it in a measure from her husband'svery countenance. It was the same face she had looked intowith eyes equally earnest perhaps, but less penetrating, on theterrace of a Florentine villa; except that Osmond had grownslightly stouter since his marriage. He still, however, mightstrike one as very distinguished.

"Has Lord Warburton been here?" he presently asked."Yes, he stayed half an hour.""Did he see Pansy?""Yes; he sat on the sofa beside her.""Did he talk with her much?""He talked almost only to her.""It seems to me he's attentive. Isn't that what you call it?""I don't call it anything," said Isabel; "I've waited for you to

give it a name.""That's a consideration you don't always show," Osmond

answered after a moment."I've determined, this time, to try and act as you'd like. I've

so often failed of that."Osmond turned his head slowly, looking at her. "Are you try-

ing to quarrel with me?""No, I'm trying to live at peace.""Nothing's more easy; you know I don't quarrel myself.""What do you call it when you try to make me angry?" Isabel

asked."I don't try; if I've done so it has been the most natural thing

in the world. Moreover I'm not in the least trying now."Isabel smiled. "It doesn't matter. I've determined never to be

angry again.""That's an excellent resolve. Your temper isn't good."

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"No—it's not good." She pushed away the book she had beenreading and took up the band of tapestry Pansy had left on thetable.

"That's partly why I've not spoken to you about this businessof my daughter's," Osmond said, designating Pansy in the man-ner that was most frequent with him. "I was afraid I should en-counter opposition—that you too would have views on the sub-ject. I've sent little Rosier about his business."

"You were afraid I'd plead for Mr. Rosier? Haven't you no-ticed that I've never spoken to you of him?"

"I've never given you a chance. We've so little conversationin these days. I know he was an old friend of yours."

"Yes; he's an old friend of mine." Isabel cared little more forhim than for the tapestry that she held in her hand; but it wastrue that he was an old friend and that with her husband shefelt a desire not to extenuate such ties. He had a way of ex-pressing contempt for them which fortified her loyalty to them,even when, as in the present case, they were in themselves in-significant. She sometimes felt a sort of passion of tendernessfor memories which had no other merit than that they be-longed to her unmarried life. "But as regards Pansy," she ad-ded in a moment, "I've given him no encouragement."

"That's fortunate," Osmond observed."Fortunate for me, I suppose you mean. For him it matters

little.""There's no use talking of him," Osmond said. "As I tell you,

I've turned him out.""Yes; but a lover outside's always a lover. He's sometimes

even more of one. Mr. Rosier still has hope.""He's welcome to the comfort of it! My daughter has only to

sit perfectly quiet to become Lady Warburton.""Should you like that?" Isabel asked with a simplicity which

was not so affected as it may appear. She was resolved to as-sume nothing, for Osmond had a way of unexpectedly turningher assumptions against her. The intensity with which hewould like his daughter to become Lady Warburton had beenthe very basis of her own recent reflections. But that was forherself; she would recognise nothing until Osmond should haveput it into words; she would not take for granted with him thathe thought Lord Warburton a prize worth an amount of effort

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that was unusual among the Osmonds. It was Gilbert's con-stant intimation that for him nothing in life was a prize; that hetreated as from equal to equal with the most distinguishedpeople in the world, and that his daughter had only to lookabout her to pick out a prince. It cost him therefore a lapsefrom consistency to say explicitly that he yearned for LordWarburton and that if this nobleman should escape his equival-ent might not be found; with which moreover it was another ofhis customary implications that he was never inconsistent. Hewould have liked his wife to glide over the point. But strangelyenough, now that she was face to face with him and althoughan hour before she had almost invented a scheme for pleasinghim, Isabel was not accommodating, would not glide. And yetshe knew exactly the effect on his mind of her question: itwould operate as an humiliation. Never mind; he was terriblycapable of humiliating her—all the more so that he was alsocapable of waiting for great opportunities and of showingsometimes an almost unaccountable indifference to small ones.Isabel perhaps took a small opportunity because she would nothave availed herself of a great one.

Osmond at present acquitted himself very honourably. "Ishould like it extremely; it would be a great marriage. And thenLord Warburton has another advantage: he's an old friend ofyours. It would be pleasant for him to come into the family. It'svery odd Pansy's admirers should all be your old friends."

"It's natural that they should come to see me. In coming tosee me they see Pansy. Seeing her it's natural they should fallin love with her."

"So I think. But you're not bound to do so.""If she should marry Lord Warburton I should be very glad,"

Isabel went on frankly. "He's an excellent man. You say,however, that she has only to sit perfectly still. Perhaps shewon't sit perfectly still. If she loses Mr. Rosier she may jumpup!"

Osmond appeared to give no heed to this; he sat gazing atthe fire. "Pansy would like to be a great lady," he remarked in amoment with a certain tenderness of tone. "She wishes aboveall to please," he added.

"To please Mr. Rosier, perhaps.""No, to please me."

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"Me too a little, I think," said Isabel."Yes, she has a great opinion of you. But she'll do what I

like.""If you're sure of that, it's very well," she went on."Meantime," said Osmond, "I should like our distinguished

visitor to speak.""He has spoken—to me. He has told me it would be a great

pleasure to him to believe she could care for him."Osmond turned his head quickly, but at first he said nothing.

Then, "Why didn't you tell me that?" he asked sharply."There was no opportunity. You know how we live. I've taken

the first chance that has offered.""Did you speak to him of Rosier?""Oh yes, a little.""That was hardly necessary.""I thought it best he should know, so that, so that—" And Isa-

bel paused."So that what?""So that he might act accordingly.""So that he might back out, do you mean?""No, so that he might advance while there's yet time.""That's not the effect it seems to have had.""You should have patience," said Isabel. "You know English-

men are shy.""This one's not. He was not when he made love to YOU."She had been afraid Osmond would speak of that; it was dis-

agreeable to her. "I beg your pardon; he was extremely so,"she returned.

He answered nothing for some time; he took up a book andfingered the pages while she sat silent and occupied herselfwith Pansy's tapestry. "You must have a great deal of influencewith him," Osmond went on at last. "The moment you reallywish it you can bring him to the point."

This was more offensive still; but she felt the great natural-ness of his saying it, and it was after all extremely like whatshe had said to herself. "Why should I have influence?" sheasked. "What have I ever done to put him under an obligationto me?"

"You refused to marry him," said Osmond with his eyes on hisbook.

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"I must not presume too much on that," she replied.He threw down the book presently and got up, standing be-

fore the fire with his hands behind him. "Well, I hold that it liesin your hands. I shall leave it there. With a little good-will youmay manage it. Think that over and remember how much Icount on you." He waited a little, to give her time to answer;but she answered nothing, and he presently strolled out of theroom.

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Chapter 42She had answered nothing because his words had put the situ-ation before her and she was absorbed in looking at it. Therewas something in them that suddenly made vibrations deep, sothat she had been afraid to trust herself to speak. After he hadgone she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes; and fora long time, far into the night and still further, she sat in thestill drawing-room, given up to her meditation. A servant camein to attend to the fire, and she bade him bring fresh candlesand then go to bed. Osmond had told her to think of what hehad said; and she did so indeed, and of many other things. Thesuggestion from another that she had a definite influence onLord Warburton—this had given her the start that accompaniesunexpected recognition. Was it true that there was somethingstill between them that might be a handle to make him declarehimself to Pansy—a susceptibility, on his part, to approval, adesire to do what would please her? Isabel had hitherto notasked herself the question, because she had not been forced;but now that it was directly presented to her she saw the an-swer, and the answer frightened her. Yes, there wassomething—something on Lord Warburton's part. When he hadfirst come to Rome she believed the link that united them to becompletely snapped; but little by little she had been remindedthat it had yet a palpable existence. It was as thin as a hair, butthere were moments when she seemed to hear it vibrate. Forherself nothing was changed; what she once thought of himshe always thought; it was needless this feeling should change;it seemed to her in fact a better feeling than ever. But he? hadhe still the idea that she might be more to him than other wo-men? Had he the wish to profit by the memory of the few mo-ments of intimacy through which they had once passed? Isabelknew she had read some of the signs of such a disposition. Butwhat were his hopes, his pretensions, and in what strange way

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were they mingled with his evidently very sincere appreciationof poor Pansy? Was he in love with Gilbert Osmond's wife, andif so what comfort did he expect to derive from it? If he was inlove with Pansy he was not in love with her stepmother, and ifhe was in love with her stepmother he was not in love withPansy. Was she to cultivate the advantage she possessed in or-der to make him commit himself to Pansy, knowing he woulddo so for her sake and not for the small creature's own—wasthis the service her husband had asked of her? This at any ratewas the duty with which she found herself confronted—fromthe moment she admitted to herself that her old friend had stillan uneradicated predilection for her society. It was not anagreeable task; it was in fact a repulsive one. She asked herselfwith dismay whether Lord Warburton were pretending to be inlove with Pansy in order to cultivate another satisfaction andwhat might be called other chances. Of this refinement of du-plicity she presently acquitted him; she preferred to believehim in perfect good faith. But if his admiration for Pansy werea delusion this was scarcely better than its being an affecta-tion. Isabel wandered among these ugly possibilities until shehad completely lost her way; some of them, as she suddenly en-countered them, seemed ugly enough. Then she broke out ofthe labyrinth, rubbing her eyes, and declared that her imagina-tion surely did her little honour and that her husband's did himeven less. Lord Warburton was as disinterested as he need be,and she was no more to him than she need wish. She wouldrest upon this till the contrary should be proved; proved moreeffectually than by a cynical intimation of Osmond's.

Such a resolution, however, brought her this evening butlittle peace, for her soul was haunted with terrors whichcrowded to the foreground of thought as quickly as a place wasmade for them. What had suddenly set them into livelier mo-tion she hardly knew, unless it were the strange impressionshe had received in the afternoon of her husband's being inmore direct communication with Madame Merle than she sus-pected. That impression came back to her from time to time,and now she wondered it had never come before. Besides this,her short interview with Osmond half an hour ago was a strik-ing example of his faculty for making everything wither that hetouched, spoiling everything for her that he looked at. It was

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very well to undertake to give him a proof of loyalty; the realfact was that the knowledge of his expecting a thing raised apresumption against it. It was as if he had had the evil eye; asif his presence were a blight and his favour a misfortune. Wasthe fault in himself, or only in the deep mistrust she had con-ceived for him? This mistrust was now the clearest result oftheir short married life; a gulf had opened between them overwhich they looked at each other with eyes that were on eitherside a declaration of the deception suffered. It was a strangeopposition, of the like of which she had never dreamed—an op-position in which the vital principle of the one was a thing ofcontempt to the other. It was not her fault—she had practisedno deception; she had only admired and believed. She hadtaken all the first steps in the purest confidence, and then shehad suddenly found the infinite vista of a multiplied life to be adark, narrow alley with a dead wall at the end. Instead of lead-ing to the high places of happiness, from which the worldwould seem to lie below one, so that one could look down witha sense of exaltation and advantage, and judge and choose andpity, it led rather downward and earthward, into realms of re-striction and depression where the sound of other lives, easierand freer, was heard as from above, and where it served todeepen the feeling of failure. It was her deep distrust of herhusband—this was what darkened the world. That is a senti-ment easily indicated, but not so easily explained, and so com-posite in its character that much time and still more sufferinghad been needed to bring it to its actual perfection. Suffering,with Isabel, was an active condition; it was not a chill, a stupor,a despair; it was a passion of thought, of speculation, of re-sponse to every pressure. She flattered herself that she hadkept her failing faith to herself, however,—that no one suspec-ted it but Osmond. Oh, he knew it, and there were times whenshe thought he enjoyed it. It had come gradually—it was not tillthe first year of their life together, so admirably intimate atfirst, had closed that she had taken the alarm. Then the shad-ows had begun to gather; it was as if Osmond deliberately, al-most malignantly, had put the lights out one by one. The duskat first was vague and thin, and she could still see her way init. But it steadily deepened, and if now and again it had occa-sionally lifted there were certain corners of her prospect that

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were impenetrably black. These shadows were not an emana-tion from her own mind: she was very sure of that; she haddone her best to be just and temperate, to see only the truth.They were a part, they were a kind of creation and con-sequence, of her husband's very presence. They were not hismisdeeds, his turpitudes; she accused him of nothing —that isbut of one thing, which was NOT a crime. She knew of nowrong he had done; he was not violent, he was not cruel: shesimply believed he hated her. That was all she accused him of,and the miserable part of it was precisely that it was not acrime, for against a crime she might have found redress. Hehad discovered that she was so different, that she was not whathe had believed she would prove to be. He had thought at firsthe could change her, and she had done her best to be what hewould like. But she was, after all, herself—she couldn't helpthat; and now there was no use pretending, wearing a mask ora dress, for he knew her and had made up his mind. She wasnot afraid of him; she had no apprehension he would hurt her;for the ill-will he bore her was not of that sort. He would if pos-sible never give her a pretext, never put himself in the wrong.Isabel, scanning the future with dry, fixed eyes, saw that hewould have the better of her there. She would give him manypretexts, she would often put herself in the wrong. There weretimes when she almost pitied him; for if she had not deceivedhim in intention she understood how completely she must havedone so in fact. She had effaced herself when he first knewher; she had made herself small, pretending there was less ofher than there really was. It was because she had been underthe extraordinary charm that he, on his side, had taken painsto put forth. He was not changed; he had not disguised himself,during the year of his courtship, any more than she. But shehad seen only half his nature then, as one saw the disk of themoon when it was partly masked by the shadow of the earth.She saw the full moon now—she saw the whole man. She hadkept still, as it were, so that he should have a free field, and yetin spite of this she had mistaken a part for the whole.

Ah, she had been immensely under the charm! It had notpassed away; it was there still: she still knew perfectly what itwas that made Osmond delightful when he chose to be. He hadwished to be when he made love to her, and as she had wished

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to be charmed it was not wonderful he had succeeded. He hadsucceeded because he had been sincere; it never occurred toher now to deny him that. He admired her—he had told herwhy: because she was the most imaginative woman he hadknown. It might very well have been true; for during thosemonths she had imagined a world of things that had no sub-stance. She had had a more wondrous vision of him, fedthrough charmed senses and oh such a stirred fancy!—she hadnot read him right. A certain combination of features hadtouched her, and in them she had seen the most striking of fig-ures. That he was poor and lonely and yet that somehow hewas noble—that was what had interested her and seemed togive her her opportunity. There had been an indefinable beautyabout him—in his situation, in his mind, in his face. She hadfelt at the same time that he was helpless and ineffectual, butthe feeling had taken the form of a tenderness which was thevery flower of respect. He was like a sceptical voyager strollingon the beach while he waited for the tide, looking seaward yetnot putting to sea. It was in all this she had found her occasion.She would launch his boat for him; she would be his provid-ence; it would be a good thing to love him. And she had lovedhim, she had so anxiously and yet so ardently given herself—agood deal for what she found in him, but a good deal also forwhat she brought him and what might enrich the gift. As shelooked back at the passion of those full weeks she perceived init a kind of maternal strain—the happiness of a woman who feltthat she was a contributor, that she came with charged hands.But for her money, as she saw to-day, she would never havedone it. And then her mind wandered off to poor Mr. Touchett,sleeping under English turf, the beneficent author of infinitewoe! For this was the fantastic fact. At bottom her money hadbeen a burden, had been on her mind, which was filled withthe desire to transfer the weight of it to some other con-science, to some more prepared receptacle. What would light-en her own conscience more effectually than to make it over tothe man with the best taste in the world? Unless she shouldhave given it to a hospital there would have been nothing bet-ter she could do with it; and there was no charitable institutionin which she had been as much interested as in Gilbert Os-mond. He would use her fortune in a way that would make her

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think better of it and rub off a certain grossness attaching tothe good luck of an unexpected inheritance. There had beennothing very delicate in inheriting seventy thousand pounds;the delicacy had been all in Mr. Touchett's leaving them to her.But to marry Gilbert Osmond and bring him such a portion—inthat there would be delicacy for her as well. There would beless for him—that was true; but that was his affair, and if heloved her he wouldn't object to her being rich. Had he not hadthe courage to say he was glad she was rich?

Isabel's cheek burned when she asked herself if she hadreally married on a factitious theory, in order to do somethingfinely appreciable with her money. But she was able to answerquickly enough that this was only half the story. It was becausea certain ardour took possession of her—a sense of the earnest-ness of his affection and a delight in his personal qualities. Hewas better than any one else. This supreme conviction hadfilled her life for months, and enough of it still remained toprove to her that she could not have done otherwise. Thefinest—in the sense of being the subtlest—manly organism shehad ever known had become her property, and the recognitionof her having but to put out her hands and take it had been ori-ginally a sort of act of devotion. She had not been mistakenabout the beauty of his mind; she knew that organ perfectlynow. She had lived with it, she had lived IN it almost—it ap-peared to have become her habitation. If she had been cap-tured it had taken a firm hand to seize her; that reflection per-haps had some worth. A mind more ingenious, more pliant,more cultivated, more trained to admirable exercises, she hadnot encountered; and it was this exquisite instrument she hadnow to reckon with. She lost herself in infinite dismay whenshe thought of the magnitude of HIS deception. It was a won-der, perhaps, in view of this, that he didn't hate her more. Sheremembered perfectly the first sign he had given of it—it hadbeen like the bell that was to ring up the curtain upon the realdrama of their life. He said to her one day that she had toomany ideas and that she must get rid of them. He had told herthat already, before their marriage; but then she had not no-ticed it: it had come back to her only afterwards. This time shemight well have noticed it, because he had really meant it. Thewords had been nothing superficially; but when in the light of

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deepening experience she had looked into them they had thenappeared portentous. He had really meant it—he would haveliked her to have nothing of her own but her pretty appear-ance. She had known she had too many ideas; she had moreeven than he had supposed, many more than she had ex-pressed to him when he had asked her to marry him. Yes, sheHAD been hypocritical; she had liked him so much. She had toomany ideas for herself; but that was just what one married for,to share them with some one else. One couldn't pluck them upby the roots, though of course one might suppress them, becareful not to utter them. It had not been this, however, his ob-jecting to her opinions; this had been nothing. She had no opin-ions—none that she would not have been eager to sacrifice inthe satisfaction of feeling herself loved for it. What he hadmeant had been the whole thing—her character, the way shefelt, the way she judged. This was what she had kept in re-serve; this was what he had not known until he had found him-self—with the door closed behind, as it were—set down face toface with it. She had a certain way of looking at life which hetook as a personal offence. Heaven knew that now at least itwas a very humble, accommodating way! The strange thingwas that she should not have suspected from the first that hisown had been so different. She had thought it so large, so en-lightened, so perfectly that of an honest man and a gentleman.Hadn't he assured her that he had no superstitions, no dull lim-itations, no prejudices that had lost their freshness? Hadn't heall the appearance of a man living in the open air of the world,indifferent to small considerations, caring only for truth andknowledge and believing that two intelligent people ought tolook for them together and, whether they found them or not,find at least some happiness in the search? He had told her heloved the conventional; but there was a sense in which thisseemed a noble declaration. In that sense, that of the love ofharmony and order and decency and of all the stately offices oflife, she went with him freely, and his warning had containednothing ominous. But when, as the months had elapsed, shehad followed him further and he had led her into the mansionof his own habitation, then, THEN she had seen where shereally was.

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She could live it over again, the incredulous terror withwhich she had taken the measure of her dwelling. Betweenthose four walls she had lived ever since; they were to sur-round her for the rest of her life. It was the house of darkness,the house of dumbness, the house of suffocation. Osmond'sbeautiful mind gave it neither light nor air; Osmond's beautifulmind indeed seemed to peep down from a small high windowand mock at her. Of course it had not been physical suffering;for physical suffering there might have been a remedy. Shecould come and go; she had her liberty; her husband was per-fectly polite. He took himself so seriously; it was something ap-palling. Under all his culture, his cleverness, his amenity, un-der his good-nature, his facility, his knowledge of life, his egot-ism lay hidden like a serpent in a bank of flowers. She hadtaken him seriously, but she had not taken him so seriously asthat. How could she—especially when she had known him bet-ter? She was to think of him as he thought of himself—as thefirst gentleman in Europe. So it was that she had thought ofhim at first, and that indeed was the reason she had marriedhim. But when she began to see what it implied she drew back;there was more in the bond than she had meant to put hername to. It implied a sovereign contempt for every one butsome three or four very exalted people whom he envied, andfor everything in the world but half a dozen ideas of his own.That was very well; she would have gone with him even there along distance; for he pointed out to her so much of the base-ness and shabbiness of life, opened her eyes so wide to the stu-pidity, the depravity, the ignorance of mankind, that she hadbeen properly impressed with the infinite vulgarity of thingsand of the virtue of keeping one's self unspotted by it. But thisbase, if noble world, it appeared, was after all what one was tolive for; one was to keep it forever in one's eye, in order not toenlighten or convert or redeem it, but to extract from it somerecognition of one's own superiority. On the one hand it wasdespicable, but on the other it afforded a standard. Osmondhad talked to Isabel about his renunciation, his indifference,the ease with which he dispensed with the usual aids to suc-cess; and all this had seemed to her admirable. She hadthought it a grand indifference, an exquisite independence. Butindifference was really the last of his qualities; she had never

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seen any one who thought so much of others. For herself,avowedly, the world had always interested her and the study ofher fellow creatures been her constant passion. She wouldhave been willing, however, to renounce all her curiosities andsympathies for the sake of a personal life, if the person con-cerned had only been able to make her believe it was a gain!This at least was her present conviction; and the thing cer-tainly would have been easier than to care for society as Os-mond cared for it.

He was unable to live without it, and she saw that he hadnever really done so; he had looked at it out of his windoweven when he appeared to be most detached from it. He hadhis ideal, just as she had tried to have hers; only it was strangethat people should seek for justice in such different quarters.His ideal was a conception of high prosperity and propriety, ofthe aristocratic life, which she now saw that he deemed himselfalways, in essence at least, to have led. He had never lapsedfrom it for an hour; he would never have recovered from theshame of doing so. That again was very well; here too shewould have agreed; but they attached such different ideas,such different associations and desires, to the same formulas.Her notion of the aristocratic life was simply the union of greatknowledge with great liberty; the knowledge would give one asense of duty and the liberty a sense of enjoyment. But for Os-mond it was altogether a thing of forms, a conscious, calcu-lated attitude. He was fond of the old, the consecrated, thetransmitted; so was she, but she pretended to do what shechose with it. He had an immense esteem for tradition; he hadtold her once that the best thing in the world was to have it,but that if one was so unfortunate as not to have it one mustimmediately proceed to make it. She knew that he meant bythis that she hadn't it, but that he was better off; though fromwhat source he had derived his traditions she never learned.He had a very large collection of them, however; that was verycertain, and after a little she began to see. The great thing wasto act in accordance with them; the great thing not only forhim but for her. Isabel had an undefined conviction that toserve for another person than their proprietor traditions mustbe of a thoroughly superior kind; but she nevertheless assentedto this intimation that she too must march to the stately music

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that floated down from unknown periods in her husband's past;she who of old had been so free of step, so desultory, so devi-ous, so much the reverse of processional. There were certainthings they must do, a certain posture they must take, certainpeople they must know and not know. When she saw this rigidsystem close about her, draped though it was in picturedtapestries, that sense of darkness and suffocation of which Ihave spoken took possession of her; she seemed shut up withan odour of mould and decay. She had resisted of course; atfirst very humorously, ironically, tenderly; then, as the situ-ation grew more serious, eagerly, passionately, pleadingly. Shehad pleaded the cause of freedom, of doing as they chose, ofnot caring for the aspect and denomination of their life—thecause of other instincts and longings, of quite another ideal.

Then it was that her husband's personality, touched as it nev-er had been, stepped forth and stood erect. The things she hadsaid were answered only by his scorn, and she could see hewas ineffably ashamed of her. What did he think of her—thatshe was base, vulgar, ignoble? He at least knew now that shehad no traditions! It had not been in hsis prevision of thingsthat she should reveal such flatness; her sentiments wereworthy of a radical newspaper or a Unitarian preacher. Thereal offence, as she ultimately perceived, was her having amind of her own at all. Her mind was to be his—attached to hisown like a small garden-plot to a deer-park. He would rake thesoil gently and water the flowers; he would weed the beds andgather an occasional nosegay. It would be a pretty piece ofproperty for a proprietor already far-reaching. He didn't wishher to be stupid. On the contrary, it was because she was clev-er that she had pleased him. But he expected her intelligenceto operate altogether in his favour, and so far from desiring hermind to be a blank he had flattered himself that it would berichly receptive. He had expected his wife to feel with him andfor him, to enter into his opinions, his ambitions, his prefer-ences; and Isabel was obliged to confess that this was no greatinsolence on the part of a man so accomplished and a husbandoriginally at least so tender. But there were certain things shecould never take in. To begin with, they were hideously un-clean. She was not a daughter of the Puritans, but for all thatshe believed in such a thing as chastity and even as decency. It

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would appear that Osmond was far from doing anything of thesort; some of his traditions made her push back her skirts. Didall women have lovers? Did they all lie and even the best havetheir price? Were there only three or four that didn't deceivetheir husbands? When Isabel heard such things she felt agreater scorn for them than for the gossip of a village par-lour—a scorn that kept its freshness in a very tainted air. Therewas the taint of her sister-in-law: did her husband judge onlyby the Countess Gemini? This lady very often lied, and she hadpractised deceptions that were not simply verbal. It wasenough to find these facts assumed among Osmond's tradi-tions—it was enough without giving them such a general exten-sion. It was her scorn of his assumptions, it was this that madehim draw himself up. He had plenty of contempt, and it wasproper his wife should be as well furnished; but that she shouldturn the hot light of her disdain upon his own conception ofthings—this was a danger he had not allowed for. He believedhe should have regulated her emotions before she came to it;and Isabel could easily imagine how his ears had scorched onhis discovering he had been too confident. When one had awife who gave one that sensation there was nothing left but tohate her.

She was morally certain now that this feeling of hatred,which at first had been a refuge and a refreshment, had be-come the occupation and comfort of his life. The feeling wasdeep, because it was sincere; he had had the revelation thatshe could after all dispense with him. If to herself the idea wasstartling, if it presented itself at first as a kind of infidelity, acapacity for pollution, what infinite effect might it not be ex-pected to have had upon HIM? It was very simple; he despisedher; she had no traditions and the moral horizon of a Unitarianminister. Poor Isabel, who had never been able to understandUnitarianism! This was the certitude she had been living withnow for a time that she had ceased to measure. What was com-ing—what was before them? That was her constant question.What would he do—what ought SHE to do? When a man hatedhis wife what did it lead to? She didn't hate him, that she wassure of, for every little while she felt a passionate wish to givehim a pleasant surprise. Very often, however, she felt afraid,and it used to come over her, as I have intimated, that she had

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deceived him at the very first. They were strangely married, atall events, and it was a horrible life. Until that morning he hadscarcely spoken to her for a week; his manner was as dry as aburned-out fire. She knew there was a special reason; he wasdispleased at Ralph Touchett's staying on in Rome. He thoughtshe saw too much of her cousin—he had told her a week beforeit was indecent she should go to him at his hotel. He wouldhave said more than this if Ralph's invalid state had not ap-peared to make it brutal to denounce him; but having had tocontain himself had only deepened his disgust. Isabel read allthis as she would have read the hour on the clock-face; she wasas perfectly aware that the sight of her interest in her cousinstirred her husband's rage as if Osmond had locked her intoher room—which she was sure was what he wanted to do. Itwas her honest belief that on the whole she was not defiant,but she certainly couldn't pretend to be indifferent to Ralph.She believed he was dying at last and that she should neversee him again, and this gave her a tenderness for him that shehad never known before. Nothing was a pleasure to her now;how could anything be a pleasure to a woman who knew thatshe had thrown away her life? There was an everlasting weighton her heart— there was a livid light on everything. ButRalph's little visit was a lamp in the darkness; for the hour thatshe sat with him her ache for herself became somehow herache for HIM. She felt to-day as if he had been her brother.She had never had a brother, but if she had and she were introuble and he were dying, he would be dear to her as Ralphwas. Ah yes, if Gilbert was jealous of her there was perhapssome reason; it didn't make Gilbert look better to sit for half anhour with Ralph. It was not that they talked of him—it was notthat she complained. His name was never uttered betweenthem. It was simply that Ralph was generous and that her hus-band was not. There was something in Ralph's talk, in hissmile, in the mere fact of his being in Rome, that made theblasted circle round which she walked more spacious. He madeher feel the good of the world; he made her feel what mighthave been. He was after all as intelligent as Osmond—quiteapart from his being better. And thus it seemed to her an act ofdevotion to conceal her misery from him. She concealed itelaborately; she was perpetually, in their talk, hanging out

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curtains and before her again—it lived before her again,—ithad never had time to die—that morning in the garden atFlorence when he had warned her against Osmond. She hadonly to close her eyes to see the place, to hear his voice, to feelthe warm, sweet air. How could he have known? What a mys-tery, what a wonder of wisdom! As intelligent as Gilbert? Hewas much more intelligent—to arrive at such a judgement asthat. Gilbert had never been so deep, so just. She had told himthen that from her at least he should never know if he wasright; and this was what she was taking care of now. It gaveher plenty to do; there was passion, exaltation, religion in it.Women find their religion sometimes in strange exercises, andIsabel at present, in playing a part before her cousin, had anidea that she was doing him a kindness. It would have been akindness perhaps if he had been for a single instant a dupe. Asit was, the kindness consisted mainly in trying to make him be-lieve that he had once wounded her greatly and that the eventhad put him to shame, but that, as she was very generous andhe was so ill, she bore him no grudge and even consideratelyforbore to flaunt her happiness in his face. Ralph smiled tohimself, as he lay on his sofa, at this extraordinary form of con-sideration; but he forgave her for having forgiven him. Shedidn't wish him to have the pain of knowing she was unhappy:that was the great thing, and it didn't matter that such know-ledge would rather have righted him.

For herself, she lingered in the soundless saloon long afterthe fire had gone out. There was no danger of her feeling thecold; she was in a fever. She heard the small hours strike, andthen the great ones, but her vigil took no heed of time. Hermind, assailed by visions, was in a state of extraordinary activ-ity, and her visions might as well come to her there, where shesat up to meet them, as on her pillow, to make a mockery ofrest. As I have said, she believed she was not defiant, and whatcould be a better proof of it than that she should linger therehalf the night, trying to persuade herself that there was noreason why Pansy shouldn't be married as you would put a let-ter in the post-office? When the clock struck four she got up;she was going to bed at last, for the lamp had long since goneout and the candles burned down to their sockets. But eventhen she stopped again in the middle of the room and stood

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there gazing at a remembered vision—that of her husband andMadame Merle unconsciously and familiarly associated.

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Chapter 43Three nights after this she took Pansy to a great party, towhich Osmond, who never went to dances, did not accompanythem. Pansy was as ready for a dance as ever; she was not of ageneralising turn and had not extended to other pleasures theinterdict she had seen placed on those of love. If she was bid-ing her time or hoping to circumvent her father she must havehad a prevision of success. Isabel thought this unlikely; it wasmuch more likely that Pansy had simply determined to be agood girl. She had never had such a chance, and she had aproper esteem for chances. She carried herself no less attent-ively than usual and kept no less anxious an eye upon her va-porous skirts; she held her bouquet very tight and countedover the flowers for the twentieth time. She made Isabel feelold; it seemed so long since she had been in a flutter about aball. Pansy, who was greatly admired, was never in want ofpartners, and very soon after their arrival she gave Isabel, whowas not dancing, her bouquet to hold. Isabel had rendered herthis service for some minutes when she became aware of thenear presence of Edward Rosier. He stood before her; he hadlost his affable smile and wore a look of almost military resolu-tion. The change in his appearance would have made Isabelsmile if she had not felt his case to be at bottom a hard one: hehad always smelt so much more of heliotrope than of gun-powder. He looked at her a moment somewhat fiercely, as if tonotify her he was dangerous, and then dropped his eyes on herbouquet. After he had inspected it his glance softened and hesaid quickly: "It's all pansies; it must be hers!"

Isabel smiled kindly. "Yes, it's hers; she gave it to me tohold."

"May I hold it a little, Mrs. Osmond?" the poor young manasked.

"No, I can't trust you; I'm afraid you wouldn't give it back."

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"I'm not sure that I should; I should leave the house with itinstantly. But may I not at least have a single flower?"

Isabel hesitated a moment, and then, smiling still, held outthe bouquet. "Choose one yourself. It's frightful what I'm doingfor you."

"Ah, if you do no more than this, Mrs. Osmond!" Rosier ex-claimed with his glass in one eye, carefully choosing his flower.

"Don't put it into your button-hole," she said. "Don't for theworld!"

"I should like her to see it. She has refused to dance with me,but I wish to show her that I believe in her still."

"It's very well to show it to her, but it's out of place to show itto others. Her father has told her not to dance with you."

"And is that all YOU can do for me? I expected more fromyou, Mrs. Osmond," said the young man in a tone of fine gener-al reference. "You know our acquaintance goes back veryfar—quite into the days of our innocent childhood."

"Don't make me out too old," Isabel patiently answered. "Youcome back to that very often, and I've never denied it. But Imust tell you that, old friends as we are, if you had done methe honour to ask me to marry you I should have refused youon the spot."

"Ah, you don't esteem me then. Say at once that you think mea mere Parisian trifler!"

"I esteem you very much, but I'm not in love with you. What Imean by that, of course, is that I'm not in love with you forPansy."

"Very good; I see. You pity me—that's all." And Edward Rosi-er looked all round, inconsequently, with his single glass. Itwas a revelation to him that people shouldn't be more pleased;but he was at least too proud to show that the deficiencystruck him as general.

Isabel for a moment said nothing. His manner and appear-ance had not the dignity of the deepest tragedy; his little glass,among other things, was against that. But she suddenly felttouched; her own unhappiness, after all, had something in com-mon with his, and it came over her, more than before, thathere, in recognisable, if not in romantic form, was the most af-fecting thing in the world—young love struggling with

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adversity. "Would you really be very kind to her?" she finallyasked in a low tone.

He dropped his eyes devoutly and raised the little flower thathe held in his fingers to his lips. Then he looked at her. "Youpity me; but don't you pity HER a little?"

"I don't know; I'm not sure. She'll always enjoy life.""It will depend on what you call life!" Mr. Rosier effectively

said. "She won't enjoy being tortured.""There'll be nothing of that.""I'm glad to hear it. She knows what she's about. You'll see.""I think she does, and she'll never disobey her father. But

she's coming back to me," Isabel added, "and I must beg you togo away."

Rosier lingered a moment till Pansy came in sight on the armof her cavalier; he stood just long enough to look her in theface. Then he walked away, holding up his head; and the man-ner in which he achieved this sacrifice to expediency convincedIsabel he was very much in love.

Pansy, who seldom got disarranged in dancing, looking per-fectly fresh and cool after this exercise, waited a moment andthen took back her bouquet. Isabel watched her and saw shewas counting the flowers; whereupon she said to herself thatdecidedly there were deeper forces at play than she had recog-nised. Pansy had seen Rosier turn away, but she said nothingto Isabel about him; she talked only of her partner, after hehad made his bow and retired; of the music, the floor, the raremisfortune of having already torn her dress. Isabel was sure,however, she had discovered her lover to have abstracted aflower; though this knowledge was not needed to account forthe dutiful grace with which she responded to the appeal of hernext partner. That perfect amenity under acute constraint waspart of a larger system. She was again led forth by a flushedyoung man, this time carrying her bouquet; and she had notbeen absent many minutes when Isabel saw Lord Warburtonadvancing through the crowd. He presently drew near andbade her good-evening; she had not seen him since the day be-fore. He looked about him, and then "Where's the little maid?"he asked. It was in this manner that he had formed the harm-less habit of alluding to Miss Osmond.

"She's dancing," said Isabel. "You'll see her somewhere."

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He looked among the dancers and at last caught Pansy's eye."She sees me, but she won't notice me," he then remarked."Are you not dancing?"

"As you see, I'm a wall-flower.""Won't you dance with me?""Thank you; I'd rather you should dance with the little maid.""One needn't prevent the other—especially as she's

engaged.""She's not engaged for everything, and you can reserve your-

self. She dances very hard, and you'll be the fresher.""She dances beautifully," said Lord Warburton, following her

with his eyes. "Ah, at last," he added, "she has given me asmile." He stood there with his handsome, easy, importantphysiognomy; and as Isabel observed him it came over her, asit had done before, that it was strange a man of his mettleshould take an interest in a little maid. It struck her as a greatincongruity; neither Pansy's small fascinations, nor his ownkindness, his good-nature, not even his need for amusement,which was extreme and constant, were sufficient to account forit. "I should like to dance with you," he went on in a moment,turning back to Isabel; "but I think I like even better to talkwith you."

"Yes, it's better, and it's more worthy of your dignity. Greatstatesmen oughtn't to waltz."

"Don't be cruel. Why did you recommend me then to dancewith Miss Osmond?"

"Ah, that's different. If you danced with her it would looksimply like a piece of kindness—as if you were doing it for heramusement. If you dance with me you'll look as if you were do-ing it for your own."

"And pray haven't I a right to amuse myself?""No, not with the affairs of the British Empire on your

hands.""The British Empire be hanged! You're always laughing at it.""Amuse yourself with talking to me," said Isabel."I'm not sure it's really a recreation. You're too pointed; I've

always to be defending myself. And you strike me as more thanusually dangerous to-night. Will you absolutely not dance?"

"I can't leave my place. Pansy must find me here."

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He was silent a little. "You're wonderfully good to her," hesaid suddenly.

Isabel stared a little and smiled. "Can you imagine one's notbeing?"

"No indeed. I know how one is charmed with her. But youmust have done a great deal for her."

"I've taken her out with me," said Isabel, smiling still. "AndI've seen that she has proper clothes."

"Your society must have been a great benefit to her. You'vetalked to her, advised her, helped her to develop."

"Ah yes, if she isn't the rose she has lived near it."She laughed, and her companion did as much; but there was

a certain visible preoccupation in his face which interferedwith complete hilarity. "We all try to live as near it as we can,"he said after a moment's hesitation.

Isabel turned away; Pansy was about to be restored to her,and she welcomed the diversion. We know how much she likedLord Warburton; she thought him pleasanter even than thesum of his merits warranted; there was something in hisfriendship that appeared a kind of resource in case of indefin-ite need; it was like having a large balance at the bank. Shefelt happier when he was in the room; there was something re-assuring in his approach; the sound of his voice reminded herof the beneficence of nature. Yet for all that it didn't suit herthat he should be too near her, that he should take too much ofher good-will for granted. She was afraid of that; she avertedherself from it; she wished he wouldn't. She felt that if heshould come too near, as it were, it might be in her to flash outand bid him keep his distance. Pansy came back to Isabel withanother rent in her skirt, which was the inevitable con-sequence of the first and which she displayed to Isabel withserious eyes. There were too many gentlemen in uniform; theywore those dreadful spurs, which were fatal to the dresses oflittle maids. It hereupon became apparent that the resources ofwomen are innumerable. Isabel devoted herself to Pansy's de-secrated drapery; she fumbled for a pin and repaired the in-jury; she smiled and listened to her account of her adventures.Her attention, her sympathy were immediate and active; andthey were in direct proportion to a sentiment with which theywere in no way connected—a lively conjecture as to whether

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Lord Warburton might be trying to make love to her. It was notsimply his words just then; it was others as well; it was the ref-erence and the continuity. This was what she thought aboutwhile she pinned up Pansy's dress. If it were so, as she feared,he was of course unwitting; he himself had not taken accountof his intention. But this made it none the more auspicious,made the situation none less impossible. The sooner he shouldget back into right relations with things the better. He immedi-ately began to talk to Pansy—on whom it was certainly mystify-ing to see that he dropped a smile of chastened devotion.Pansy replied, as usual, with a little air of conscientious aspira-tion; he had to bend toward her a good deal in conversation,and her eyes, as usual, wandered up and down his robust per-son as if he had offered it to her for exhibition. She alwaysseemed a little frightened; yet her fright was not of the painfulcharacter that suggests dislike; on the contrary, she looked asif she knew that he knew she liked him. Isabel left them togeth-er a little and wandered toward a friend whom she saw nearand with whom she talked till the music of the following dancebegan, for which she knew Pansy to be also engaged. The girljoined her presently, with a little fluttered flush, and Isabel,who scrupulously took Osmond's view of his daughter's com-plete dependence, consigned her, as a precious and moment-ary loan, to her appointed partner. About all this matter shehad her own imaginations, her own reserves; there were mo-ments when Pansy's extreme adhesiveness made each of them,to her sense, look foolish. But Osmond had given her a sort oftableau of her position as his daughter's duenna, which con-sisted of gracious alternations of concession and contraction;and there were directions of his which she liked to think sheobeyed to the letter. Perhaps, as regards some of them, it wasbecause her doing so appeared to reduce them to the absurd.

After Pansy had been led away, she found Lord Warburtondrawing near her again. She rested her eyes on him steadily;she wished she could sound his thoughts. But he had no ap-pearance of confusion. "She has promised to dance with melater," he said.

"I'm glad of that. I suppose you've engaged her for thecotillion."

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At this he looked a little awkward. "No, I didn't ask her forthat. It's a quadrille."

"Ah, you're not clever!" said Isabel almost angrily. "I told herto keep the cotillion in case you should ask for it."

"Poor little maid, fancy that!" And Lord Warburton laughedfrankly. "Of course I will if you like."

"If I like? Oh, if you dance with her only because I like it—!""I'm afraid I bore her. She seems to have a lot of young fel-

lows on her book."Isabel dropped her eyes, reflecting rapidly; Lord Warburton

stood there looking at her and she felt his eyes on her face.She felt much inclined to ask him to remove them. She didn'tdo so, however; she only said to him, after a minute, with herown raised: "Please let me understand."

"Understand what?""You told me ten days ago that you'd like to marry my step-

daughter. You've not forgotten it!""Forgotten it? I wrote to Mr. Osmond about it this morning.""Ah," said Isabel, "he didn't mention to me that he had heard

from you."Lord Warburton stammered a little. "I—I didn't send my

letter.""Perhaps you forgot THAT.""No, I wasn't satisfied with it. It's an awkward sort of letter

to write, you know. But I shall send it to-night.""At three o'clock in the morning?""I mean later, in the course of the day.""Very good. You still wish then to marry her?""Very much indeed.""Aren't you afraid that you'll bore her?" And as her compan-

ion stared at this enquiry Isabel added: "If she can't dance withyou for half an hour how will she be able to dance with you forlife?"

"Ah," said Lord Warburton readily, "I'll let her dance withother people! About the cotillion, the fact is I thought thatyou— that you—"

"That I would do it with you? I told you I'd do nothing.""Exactly; so that while it's going on I might find some quiet

corner where we may sit down and talk."

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"Oh," said Isabel gravely, "you're much too considerate ofme."

When the cotillion came Pansy was found to have engagedherself, thinking, in perfect humility, that Lord Warburton hadno intentions. Isabel recommended him to seek another part-ner, but he assured her that he would dance with no one butherself. As, however, she had, in spite of the remonstrances ofher hostess, declined other invitations on the ground that shewas not dancing at all, it was not possible for her to make anexception in Lord Warburton's favour.

"After all I don't care to dance," he said; "it's a barbarousamusement: I'd much rather talk." And he intimated that hehad discovered exactly the corner he had been looking for—aquiet nook in one of the smaller rooms, where the music wouldcome to them faintly and not interfere with conversation. Isa-bel had decided to let him carry out his idea; she wished to besatisfied. She wandered away from the ball-room with him,though she knew her husband desired she should not lose sightof his daughter. It was with his daughter's pretendant,however; that would make it right for Osmond. On her way outof the ball-room she came upon Edward Rosier, who was stand-ing in a doorway, with folded arms, looking at the dance in theattitude of a young man without illusions. She stopped a mo-ment and asked him if he were not dancing.

"Certainly not, if I can't dance with HER!" he answered."You had better go away then," said Isabel with the manner

of good counsel."I shall not go till she does!" And he let Lord Warburton pass

without giving him a look.This nobleman, however, had noticed the melancholy youth,

and he asked Isabel who her dismal friend was, remarking thathe had seen him somewhere before.

"It's the young man I've told you about, who's in love withPansy."

"Ah yes, I remember. He looks rather bad.""He has reason. My husband won't listen to him.""What's the matter with him?" Lord Warburton enquired. "He

seems very harmless.""He hasn't money enough, and he isn't very clever."

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Lord Warburton listened with interest; he seemed struckwith this account of Edward Rosier. "Dear me; he looked awell-set-up young fellow."

"So he is, but my husband's very particular.""Oh, I see." And Lord Warburton paused a moment. "How

much money has he got?" he then ventured to ask."Some forty thousand francs a year.""Sixteen hundred pounds? Ah, but that's very good, you

know.""So I think. My husband, however, has larger ideas.""Yes; I've noticed that your husband has very large ideas. Is

he really an idiot, the young man?""An idiot? Not in the least; he's charming. When he was

twelve years old I myself was in love with him.""He doesn't look much more than twelve to-day," Lord War-

burton rejoined vaguely, looking about him. Then with morepoint, "Don't you think we might sit here?" he asked.

"Wherever you please." The room was a sort of boudoir, per-vaded by a subdued, rose-coloured light; a lady and gentlemanmoved out of it as our friends came in. "It's very kind of you totake such an interest in Mr. Rosier," Isabel said.

"He seems to me rather ill-treated. He had a face a yardlong. I wondered what ailed him."

"You're a just man," said Isabel. "You've a kind thought evenfor a rival."

Lord Warburton suddenly turned with a stare. "A rival! Doyou call him my rival?"

"Surely—if you both wish to marry the same person.""Yes—but since he has no chance!""I like you, however that may be, for putting your self in his

place. It shows imagination.""You like me for it?" And Lord Warburton looked at her with

an uncertain eye. "I think you mean you're laughing at me forit."

"Yes, I'm laughing at you a little. But I like you as somebodyto laugh at."

"Ah well, then, let me enter into his situation a little more.What do you suppose one could do for him?"

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"Since I have been praising your imagination I'll leave you toimagine that yourself," Isabel said. "Pansy too would like youfor that."

"Miss Osmond? Ah, she, I flatter myself, likes me already.""Very much, I think."He waited a little; he was still questioning her face. "Well

then, I don't understand you. You don't mean that she cares forhim?"

A quick blush sprang to his brow. "You told me she wouldhave no wish apart from her father's, and as I've gathered thathe would favour me—!" He paused a little and then suggested"Don't you see?" through his blush.

"Yes, I told you she has an immense wish to please her fath-er, and that it would probably take her very far."

"That seems to me a very proper feeling," said LordWarburton.

"Certainly; it's a very proper feeling." Isabel remained silentfor some moments; the room continued empty; the sound of themusic reached them with its richness softened by the interpos-ing apartments. Then at last she said: "But it hardly strikes meas the sort of feeling to which a man would wish to be indebtedfor a wife."

"I don't know; if the wife's a good one and he thinks she doeswell!"

"Yes, of course you must think that.""I do; I can't help it. You call that very British, of course.""No, I don't. I think Pansy would do wonderfully well to

marry you, and I don't know who should know it better thanyou. But you're not in love."

"Ah, yes I am, Mrs. Osmond!"Isabel shook her head. "You like to think you are while you

sit here with me. But that's not how you strike me.""I'm not like the young man in the doorway. I admit that. But

what makes it so unnatural? Could any one in the world bemore loveable than Miss Osmond?"

"No one, possibly. But love has nothing to do with goodreasons."

"I don't agree with you. I'm delighted to have good reasons.""Of course you are. If you were really in love you wouldn't

care a straw for them."

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"Ah, really in love—really in love!" Lord Warburton ex-claimed, folding his arms, leaning back his head and stretchinghimself a little. "You must remember that I'm forty-two yearsold. I won't pretend I'm as I once was."

"Well, if you're sure," said Isabel, "it's all right."He answered nothing; he sat there, with his head back, look-

ing before him. Abruptly, however, he changed his position; heturned quickly to his friend. "Why are you so unwilling, sosceptical?" She met his eyes, and for a moment they lookedstraight at each other. If she wished to be satisfied she sawsomething that satisfied her; she saw in his expression thegleam of an idea that she was uneasy on her own account—thatshe was perhaps even in fear. It showed a suspicion, not ahope, but such as it was it told her what she wanted to know.Not for an instant should he suspect her of detecting in his pro-posal of marrying her step-daughter an implication of in-creased nearness to herself, or of thinking it, on such a betray-al, ominous. In that brief, extremely personal gaze, however,deeper meanings passed between them than they were con-scious of at the moment.

"My dear Lord Warburton," she said, smiling, "you may do,so far as I'm concerned, whatever comes into your head."

And with this she got up and wandered into the adjoiningroom, where, within her companion's view, she was immedi-ately addressed by a pair of gentlemen, high personages in theRoman world, who met her as if they had been looking for her.While she talked with them she found herself regretting shehad moved; it looked a little like running away—all the more asLord Warburton didn't follow her. She was glad of this,however, and at any rate she was satisfied. She was so wellsatisfied that when, in passing back into the ball-room, shefound Edward Rosier still planted in the doorway, she stoppedand spoke to him again. "You did right not to go away. I'vesome comfort for you."

"I need it," the young man softly wailed, "when I see you soawfully thick with him!"

"Don't speak of him; I'll do what I can for you. I'm afraid itwon't be much, but what I can I'll do."

He looked at her with gloomy obliqueness. "What has sud-denly brought you round?"

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"The sense that you are an inconvenience in doorways!" sheanswered, smiling as she passed him. Half an hour later shetook leave, with Pansy, and at the foot of the staircase the twoladies, with many other departing guests, waited a while fortheir carriage. Just as it approached Lord Warburton came outof the house and assisted them to reach their vehicle. He stooda moment at the door, asking Pansy if she had amused herself;and she, having answered him, fell back with a little air of fa-tigue. Then Isabel, at the window, detaining him by a move-ment of her finger, murmured gently: "Don't forget to sendyour letter to her father!"

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Chapter 44The Countess Gemini was often extremely bored—bored, in herown phrase, to extinction. She had not been extinguished,however, and she struggled bravely enough with her destiny,which had been to marry an unaccommodating Florentine whoinsisted upon living in his native town, where he enjoyed suchconsideration as might attach to a gentleman whose talent forlosing at cards had not the merit of being incidental to an obli-ging disposition. The Count Gemini was not liked even by thosewho won from him; and he bore a name which, having a meas-urable value in Florence, was, like the local coin of the old Itali-an states, without currency in other parts of the peninsula. InRome he was simply a very dull Florentine, and it is not re-markable that he should not have cared to pay frequent visitsto a place where, to carry it off, his dulness needed more ex-planation than was convenient. The Countess lived with hereyes upon Rome, and it was the constant grievance of her lifethat she had not an habitation there. She was ashamed to sayhow seldom she had been allowed to visit that city; it scarcelymade the matter better that there were other members of theFlorentine nobility who never had been there at all. She wentwhenever she could; that was all she could say. Or rather notall, but all she said she could say. In fact she had much more tosay about it, and had often set forth the reasons why she hatedFlorence and wished to end her days in the shadow of SaintPeter's. They are reasons, however, that do not closely concernus, and were usually summed up in the declaration that Rome,in short, was the Eternal City and that Florence was simply apretty little place like any other. The Countess apparentlyneeded to connect the idea of eternity with her amusements.She was convinced that society was infinitely more interestingin Rome, where you met celebrities all winter at eveningparties. At Florence there were no celebrities; none at least

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that one had heard of. Since her brother's marriage her impa-tience had greatly increased; she was so sure his wife had amore brilliant life than herself. She was not so intellectual asIsabel, but she was intellectual enough to do justice toRome—not to the ruins and the catacombs, not even perhaps tothe monuments and museums, the church ceremonies and thescenery; but certainly to all the rest. She heard a great dealabout her sister-in-law and knew perfectly that Isabel was hav-ing a beautiful time. She had indeed seen it for herself on theonly occasion on which she had enjoyed the hospitality ofPalazzo Roccanera. She had spent a week there during the firstwinter of her brother's marriage, but she had not been encour-aged to renew this satisfaction. Osmond didn't want her—thatshe was perfectly aware of; but she would have gone all thesame, for after all she didn't care two straws about Osmond. Itwas her husband who wouldn't let her, and the money questionwas always a trouble. Isabel had been very nice; the Countess,who had liked her sister-in-law from the first, had not beenblinded by envy to Isabel's personal merits. She had always ob-served that she got on better with clever women than with sillyones like herself; the silly ones could never understand herwisdom, whereas the clever ones—the really clever ones—al-ways understood her silliness. It appeared to her that, differentas they were in appearance and general style, Isabel and shehad somewhere a patch of common ground that they would settheir feet upon at last. It was not very large, but it was firm,and they should both know it when once they had reallytouched it. And then she lived, with Mrs. Osmond, under the in-fluence of a pleasant surprise; she was constantly expectingthat Isabel would "look down" on her, and she as constantlysaw this operation postponed. She asked herself when it wouldbegin, like fire-works, or Lent, or the opera season; not thatshe cared much, but she wondered what kept it in abeyance.Her sister-in-law regarded her with none but level glances andexpressed for the poor Countess as little contempt as admira-tion. In reality Isabel would as soon have thought of despisingher as of passing a moral judgement on a grasshopper. Shewas not indifferent to her husband's sister, however; she wasrather a little afraid of her. She wondered at her; she thoughther very extraordinary. The Countess seemed to her to have no

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soul; she was like a bright rare shell, with a polished surfaceand a remarkably pink lip, in which something would rattlewhen you shook it. This rattle was apparently the Countess'sspiritual principle, a little loose nut that tumbled about insideof her. She was too odd for disdain, too anomalous for compar-isons. Isabel would have invited her again (there was no ques-tion of inviting the Count); but Osmond, after his marriage, hadnot scrupled to say frankly that Amy was a fool of the worstspecies —a fool whose folly had the irrepressibility of genius.He said at another time that she had no heart; and he added ina moment that she had given it all away—in small pieces, like afrosted wedding-cake. The fact of not having been asked was ofcourse another obstacle to the Countess's going again toRome; but at the period with which this history has now to dealshe was in receipt of an invitation to spend several weeks atPalazzo Roccanera. The proposal had come from Osmond him-self, who wrote to his sister that she must be prepared to bevery quiet. Whether or no she found in this phrase all themeaning he had put into it I am unable to say; but she accep-ted the invitation on any terms. She was curious, moreover; forone of the impressions of her former visit had been that herbrother had found his match. Before the marriage she hadbeen sorry for Isabel, so sorry as to have had seriousthoughts—if any of the Countess's thoughts were serious—ofputting her on her guard. But she had let that pass, and after alittle she was reassured. Osmond was as lofty as ever, but hiswife would not be an easy victim. The Countess was not veryexact at measurements, but it seemed to her that if Isabelshould draw herself up she would be the taller spirit of the two.What she wanted to learn now was whether Isabel had drawnherself up; it would give her immense pleasure to see Osmondovertopped.

Several days before she was to start for Rome a servantbrought her the card of a visitor—a card with the simple super-scription "Henrietta C. Stackpole." The Countess pressed herfinger-tips to her forehead; she didn't remember to have knownany such Henrietta as that. The servant then remarked that thelady had requested him to say that if the Countess should notrecognise her name she would know her well enough on seeingher. By the time she appeared before her visitor she had in fact

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reminded herself that there was once a literary lady at Mrs.Touchett's; the only woman of letters she had ever en-countered—that is the only modern one, since she was thedaughter of a defunct poetess. She recognised Miss Stackpoleimmediately, the more so that Miss Stackpole seemed perfectlyunchanged; and the Countess, who was thoroughly good-natured, thought it rather fine to be called on by a person ofthat sort of distinction. She wondered if Miss Stackpole hadcome on account of her mother—whether she had heard of theAmerican Corinne. Her mother was not at all like Isabel'sfriend; the Countess could see at a glance that this lady wasmuch more contemporary; and she received an impression ofthe improvements that were taking place—chiefly in distantcountries—in the character (the professional character) of lit-erary ladies. Her mother had been used to wear a Roman scarfthrown over a pair of shoulders timorously bared of their tightblack velvet (oh the old clothes!) and a gold laurel-wreath setupon a multitude of glossy ringlets. She had spoken softly andvaguely, with the accent of her "Creole" ancestors, as she al-ways confessed; she sighed a great deal and was not at all en-terprising. But Henrietta, the Countess could see, was alwaysclosely buttoned and compactly braided; there was somethingbrisk and business-like in her appearance; her manner was al-most conscientiously familiar. It was as impossible to imagineher ever vaguely sighing as to imagine a letter posted withoutits address. The Countess could not but feel that the corres-pondent of the Interviewer was much more in the movementthan the American Corinne. She explained that she had calledon the Countess because she was the only person she knew inFlorence, and that when she visited a foreign city she liked tosee something more than superficial travellers. She knew Mrs.Touchett, but Mrs. Touchett was in America, and even if shehad been in Florence Henrietta would not have put herself outfor her, since Mrs. Touchett was not one of her admirations.

"Do you mean by that that I am?" the Countess graciouslyasked.

"Well, I like you better than I do her," said Miss Stackpole. "Iseem to remember that when I saw you before you were veryinteresting. I don't know whether it was an accident or

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whether it's your usual style. At any rate I was a good dealstruck with what you said. I made use of it afterwards in print."

"Dear me!" cried the Countess, staring and half-alarmed; "Ihad no idea I ever said anything remarkable! I wish I hadknown it at the time."

"It was about the position of woman in this city," Miss Stack-pole remarked. "You threw a good deal of light upon it."

"The position of woman's very uncomfortable. Is that whatyou mean? And you wrote it down and published it?" theCountess went on. "Ah, do let me see it!"

"I'll write to them to send you the paper if you like," Henri-etta said. "I didn't mention your name; I only said a lady of highrank. And then I quoted your views."

The Countess threw herself hastily backward, tossing up herclasped hands. "Do you know I'm rather sorry you didn't men-tion my name? I should have rather liked to see my name in thepapers. I forget what my views were; I have so many! But I'mnot ashamed of them. I'm not at all like my brother—I supposeyou know my brother? He thinks it a kind of scandal to be putin the papers; if you were to quote him he'd never forgive you."

"He needn't be afraid; I shall never refer to him," said MissStackpole with bland dryness. "That's another reason," she ad-ded, "why I wanted to come to see you. You know Mr. Osmondmarried my dearest friend."

"Ah, yes; you were a friend of Isabel's. I was trying to thinkwhat I knew about you."

"I'm quite willing to be known by that," Henrietta declared."But that isn't what your brother likes to know me by. He hastried to break up my relations with Isabel."

"Don't permit it," said the Countess."That's what I want to talk about. I'm going to Rome.""So am I!" the Countess cried. "We'll go together.""With great pleasure. And when I write about my journey I'll

mention you by name as my companion."The Countess sprang from her chair and came and sat on the

sofa beside her visitor. "Ah, you must send me the paper! Myhusband won't like it, but he need never see it. Besides, hedoesn't know how to read."

Henrietta's large eyes became immense. "Doesn't know howto read? May I put that into my letter?"

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"Into your letter?""In the Interviewer. That's my paper.""Oh yes, if you like; with his name. Are you going to stay with

Isabel?"Henrietta held up her head, gazing a little in silence at her

hostess. "She has not asked me. I wrote to her I was coming,and she answered that she would engage a room for me at apension. She gave no reason."

The Countess listened with extreme interest. "The reason'sOsmond," she pregnantly remarked.

"Isabel ought to make a stand," said Miss Stackpole. "I'mafraid she has changed a great deal. I told her she would."

"I'm sorry to hear it; I hoped she would have her own way.Why doesn't my brother like you?" the Countess ingenuouslyadded.

"I don't know and I don't care. He's perfectly welcome not tolike me; I don't want every one to like me; I should think less ofmyself if some people did. A journalist can't hope to do muchgood unless he gets a good deal hated; that's the way he knowshow his work goes on. And it's just the same for a lady. But Ididn't expect it of Isabel."

"Do you mean that she hates you?" the Countess enquired."I don't know; I want to see. That's what I'm going to Rome

for.""Dear me, what a tiresome errand!" the Countess exclaimed."She doesn't write to me in the same way; it's easy to see

there's a difference. If you know anything," Miss Stackpolewent on, "I should like to hear it beforehand, so as to decide onthe line I shall take."

The Countess thrust out her under lip and gave a gradualshrug. "I know very little; I see and hear very little of Osmond.He doesn't like me any better than he appears to like you."

"Yet you're not a lady correspondent," said Henriettapensively.

"Oh, he has plenty of reasons. Nevertheless they've invitedme— I'm to stay in the house!" And the Countess smiled almostfiercely; her exultation, for the moment, took little account ofMiss Stackpole's disappointment.

This lady, however, regarded it very placidly. "I shouldn'thave gone if she HAD asked me. That is I think I shouldn't; and

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I'm glad I hadn't to make up my mind. It would have been avery difficult question. I shouldn't have liked to turn away fromher, and yet I shouldn't have been happy under her roof. A pen-sion will suit me very well. But that's not all."

"Rome's very good just now," said the Countess; "there areall sorts of brilliant people. Did you ever hear of LordWarburton?"

"Hear of him? I know him very well. Do you consider himvery brilliant?" Henrietta enquired.

"I don't know him, but I'm told he's extremely grand sei-gneur. He's making love to Isabel."

"Making love to her?""So I'm told; I don't know the details," said the Countess

lightly. "But Isabel's pretty safe."Henrietta gazed earnestly at her companion; for a moment

she said nothing. "When do you go to Rome?" she enquiredabruptly.

"Not for a week, I'm afraid.""I shall go to-morrow," Henrietta said. "I think I had better

not wait.""Dear me, I'm sorry; I'm having some dresses made. I'm told

Isabel receives immensely. But I shall see you there; I shall callon you at your pension." Henrietta sat still—she was lost inthought; and suddenly the Countess cried: "Ah, but if you don'tgo with me you can't describe our journey!"

Miss Stackpole seemed unmoved by this consideration; shewas thinking of something else and presently expressed it. "I'mnot sure that I understand you about Lord Warburton."

"Understand me? I mean he's very nice, that's all.""Do you consider it nice to make love to married women?"

Henrietta enquired with unprecedented distinctness.The Countess stared, and then with a little violent laugh: "It's

certain all the nice men do it. Get married and you'll see!" sheadded.

"That idea would be enough to prevent me," said Miss Stack-pole. "I should want my own husband; I shouldn't want any oneelse's. Do you mean that Isabel's guilty—guilty—?" And shepaused a little, choosing her expression.

"Do I mean she's guilty? Oh dear no, not yet, I hope. I onlymean that Osmond's very tiresome and that Lord Warburton,

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as I hear, is a great deal at the house. I'm afraid you'rescandalised."

"No, I'm just anxious," Henrietta said."Ah, you're not very complimentary to Isabel! You should

have more confidence. I'll tell you," the Countess addedquickly: "if it will be a comfort to you I engage to draw himoff."

Miss Stackpole answered at first only with the deeper solem-nity of her gaze. "You don't understand me," she said after awhile. "I haven't the idea you seem to suppose. I'm not afraidfor Isabel—in that way. I'm only afraid she's unhappy—that'swhat I want to get at."

The Countess gave a dozen turns of the head; she looked im-patient and sarcastic. "That may very well be; for my part Ishould like to know whether Osmond is." Miss Stackpole hadbegun a little to bore her.

"If she's really changed that must be at the bottom of it,"Henrietta went on.

"You'll see; she'll tell you," said the Countess."Ah, she may NOT tell me—that's what I'm afraid of!""Well, if Osmond isn't amusing himself—in his own old

way—I flatter myself I shall discover it," the Countess rejoined."I don't care for that," said Henrietta."I do immensely! If Isabel's unhappy I'm very sorry for her,

but I can't help it. I might tell her something that would makeher worse, but I can't tell her anything that would console her.What did she go and marry him for? If she had listened to meshe'd have got rid of him. I'll forgive her, however, if I find shehas made things hot for him! If she has simply allowed him totrample upon her I don't know that I shall even pity her. But Idon't think that's very likely. I count upon finding that if she'smiserable she has at least made HIM so."

Henrietta got up; these seemed to her, naturally, very dread-ful expectations. She honestly believed she had no desire tosee Mr. Osmond unhappy; and indeed he could not be for herthe subject of a flight of fancy. She was on the whole ratherdisappointed in the Countess, whose mind moved in a narrowercircle than she had imagined, though with a capacity forcoarseness even there. "It will be better if they love each oth-er," she said for edification.

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"They can't. He can't love any one.""I presumed that was the case. But it only aggravates my

fear for Isabel. I shall positively start to-morrow.""Isabel certainly has devotees," said the Countess, smiling

very vividly. "I declare I don't pity her.""It may be I can't assist her," Miss Stackpole pursued, as if it

were well not to have illusions."You can have wanted to, at any rate; that's something. I be-

lieve that's what you came from America for," the Countesssuddenly added.

"Yes, I wanted to look after her," Henrietta said serenely.Her hostess stood there smiling at her with small bright eyes

and an eager-looking nose; with cheeks into each of which aflush had come. "Ah, that's very pretty c'est bien gentil! Isn't itwhat they call friendship?"

"I don't know what they call it. I thought I had better come.""She's very happy—she's very fortunate," the Countess went

on. "She has others besides." And then she broke out passion-ately. "She's more fortunate than I! I'm as unhappy as she—I'vea very bad husband; he's a great deal worse than Osmond. AndI've no friends. I thought I had, but they're gone. No one, manor woman, would do for me what you've done for her."

Henrietta was touched; there was nature in this bitter effu-sion. She gazed at her companion a moment, and then: "Lookhere, Countess, I'll do anything for you that you like. I'll waitover and travel with you."

"Never mind," the Countess answered with a quick change oftone: "only describe me in the newspaper!"

Henrietta, before leaving her, however, was obliged to makeher understand that she could give no fictitious representationof her journey to Rome. Miss Stackpole was a strictly veraciousreporter. On quitting her she took the way to the Lung' Arno,the sunny quay beside the yellow river where the bright-facedinns familiar to tourists stand all in a row. She had learned herway before this through the streets of Florence (she was veryquick in such matters), and was therefore able to turn withgreat decision of step out of the little square which forms theapproach to the bridge of the Holy Trinity. She proceeded tothe left, toward the Ponte Vecchio, and stopped in front of oneof the hotels which overlook that delightful structure. Here she

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drew forth a small pocket-book, took from it a card and a pen-cil and, after meditating a moment, wrote a few words. It is ourprivilege to look over her shoulder, and if we exercise it wemay read the brief query: "Could I see you this evening for afew moments on a very important matter?" Henrietta addedthat she should start on the morrow for Rome. Armed with thislittle document she approached the porter, who now had takenup his station in the doorway, and asked if Mr. Goodwood wereat home. The porter replied, as porters always reply, that hehad gone out about twenty minutes before; whereupon Henri-etta presented her card and begged it might be handed him onhis return. She left the inn and pursued her course along thequay to the severe portico of the Uffizi, through which shepresently reached the entrance of the famous gallery of paint-ings. Making her way in, she ascended the high staircasewhich leads to the upper chambers. The long corridor, glazedon one side and decorated with antique busts, which gives ad-mission to these apartments, presented an empty vista inwhich the bright winter light twinkled upon the marble floor.The gallery is very cold and during the midwinter weeks butscantily visited. Miss Stackpole may appear more ardent in herquest of artistic beauty than she has hitherto struck us as be-ing, but she had after all her preferences and admirations. Oneof the latter was the little Correggio of the Tribune—the Virginkneeling down before the sacred infant, who lies in a litter ofstraw, and clapping her hands to him while he delightedlylaughs and crows. Henrietta had a special devotion to this in-timate scene—she thought it the most beautiful picture in theworld. On her way, at present, from New York to Rome, shewas spending but three days in Florence, and yet remindedherself that they must not elapse without her paying anothervisit to her favourite work of art. She had a great sense ofbeauty in all ways, and it involved a good many intellectual ob-ligations. She was about to turn into the Tribune when a gen-tleman came out of it; whereupon she gave a little exclamationand stood before Caspar Goodwood.

"I've just been at your hotel," she said. "I left a card for you.""I'm very much honoured," Caspar Goodwood answered as if

he really meant it.

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"It was not to honour you I did it; I've called on you beforeand I know you don't like it. It was to talk to you a little aboutsomething."

He looked for a moment at the buckle in her hat. "I shall bevery glad to hear what you wish to say."

"You don't like to talk with me," said Henrietta. "But I don'tcare for that; I don't talk for your amusement. I wrote a wordto ask you to come and see me; but since I've met you here thiswill do as well."

"I was just going away," Goodwood stated; "but of course I'llstop." He was civil, but not enthusiastic.

Henrietta, however, never looked for great professions, andshe was so much in earnest that she was thankful he wouldlisten to her on any terms. She asked him first, none the less, ifhe had seen all the pictures.

"All I want to. I've been here an hour.""I wonder if you've seen my Correggio," said Henrietta. "I

came up on purpose to have a look at it." She went into theTribune and he slowly accompanied her.

"I suppose I've seen it, but I didn't know it was yours. I don'tremember pictures—especially that sort." She had pointed outher favourite work, and he asked her if it was about Correggioshe wished to talk with him.

"No," said Henrietta, "it's about something less harmonious!"They had the small, brilliant room, a splendid cabinet of treas-ures, to themselves; there was only a custode hovering aboutthe Medicean Venus. "I want you to do me a favour," MissStackpole went on.

Caspar Goodwood frowned a little, but he expressed no em-barrassment at the sense of not looking eager. His face wasthat of a much older man than our earlier friend. "I'm sure it'ssomething I shan't like," he said rather loudly.

"No, I don't think you'll like it. If you did it would be nofavour."

"Well, let's hear it," he went on in the tone of a man quiteconscious of his patience.

"You may say there's no particular reason why you should dome a favour. Indeed I only know of one: the fact that if you'd letme I'd gladly do you one." Her soft, exact tone, in which therewas no attempt at effect, had an extreme sincerity; and her

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companion, though he presented rather a hard surface,couldn't help being touched by it. When he was touched herarely showed it, however, by the usual signs; he neitherblushed, nor looked away, nor looked conscious. He only fixedhis attention more directly; he seemed to consider with addedfirmness. Henrietta continued therefore disinterestedly,without the sense of an advantage. "I may say now, indeed—itseems a good time—that if I've ever annoyed you (and I thinksometimes I have) it's because I knew I was willing to sufferannoyance for you. I've troubled you— doubtless. But Is'dTAKE trouble for you."

Goodwood hesitated. "You're taking trouble now.""Yes, I am—some. I want you to consider whether it's better

on the whole that you should go to Rome.""I thought you were going to say that!" he answered rather

artlessly."You HAVE considered it then?""Of course I have, very carefully. I've looked all round it.

Otherwise I shouldn't have come so far as this. That's what Istayed in Paris two months for. I was thinking it over."

"I'm afraid you decided as you liked. You decided it was bestbecause you were so much attracted."

"Best for whom, do you mean?" Goodwood demanded."Well, for yourself first. For Mrs. Osmond next.""Oh, it won't do HER any good! I don't flatter myself that.""Won't it do her some harm?—that's the question.""I don't see what it will matter to her. I'm nothing to Mrs. Os-

mond. But if you want to know, I do want to see her myself.""Yes, and that's why you go.""Of course it is. Could there be a better reason?""How will it help you?—that's what I want to know," said

Miss Stackpole."That's just what I can't tell you. It's just what I was thinking

about in Paris.""It will make you more discontented.""Why do you say 'more' so?" Goodwood asked rather sternly.

"How do you know I'm discontented?""Well," said Henrietta, hesitating a little, "you seem never to

have cared for another."

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"How do you know what I care for?" he cried with a bigblush. "Just now I care to go to Rome."

Henrietta looked at him in silence, with a sad yet luminousexpression. "Well," she observed at last, "I only wanted to tellyou what I think; I had it on my mind. Of course you think it'snone of my business. But nothing is any one's business, on thatprinciple."

"It's very kind of you; I'm greatly obliged to you for your in-terest," said Caspar Goodwood. "I shall go to Rome and I shan'thurt Mrs. Osmond."

"You won't hurt her, perhaps. But will you help her?—that'sthe real issue."

"Is she in need of help?" he asked slowly, with a penetratinglook.

"Most women always are," said Henrietta, with conscientiousevasiveness and generalising less hopefully than usual. "If yougo to Rome," she added, "I hope you'll be a true friend—snot aselfish one!" And she turned off and began to look at thepictures.

Caspar Goodwood let her go and stood watching her whileshe wandered round the room; but after a moment he rejoinedher. "You've heard something about her here," he then re-sumed. "I should like to know what you've heard."

Henrietta had never prevaricated in her life, and, though onthis occasion there might have been a fitness in doing so, shedecided, after thinking some minutes, to make no superficialexception. "Yes, I've heard," she answered; "but as I don't wantyou to go to Rome I won't tell you."

"Just as you please. I shall see for myself," he said. Then in-consistently, for him, "You've heard she's unhappy!" he added.

"Oh, you won't see that!" Henrietta exclaimed."I hope not. When do you start?""To-morrow, by the evening train. And you?"Goodwood hung back; he had no desire to make his journey

to Rome in Miss Stackpole's company. His indifference to thisadvantage was not of the same character as Gilbert Osmond's,but it had at this moment an equal distinctness. It was rather atribute to Miss Stackpole's virtues than a reference to herfaults. He thought her very remarkable, very brilliant, and hehad, in theory, no objection to the class to which she belonged.

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Lady correspondents appeared to him a part of the naturalscheme of things in a progressive country, and though he nev-er read their letters he supposed that they ministered some-how to social prosperity. But it was this very eminence of theirposition that made him wish Miss Stackpole didn't take somuch for granted. She took for granted that he was alwaysready for some allusion to Mrs. Osmond; she had done so whenthey met in Paris, six weeks after his arrival in Europe, and shehad repeated the assumption with every successive opportun-ity. He had no wish whatever to allude to Mrs. Osmond; he wasNOT always thinking of her; he was perfectly sure of that. Hewas the most reserved, the least colloquial of men, and this en-quiring authoress was constantly flashing her lantern into thequiet darkness of his soul. He wished she didn't care so much;he even wished, though it might seem rather brutal of him,that she would leave him alone. In spite of this, however, hejust now made other reflections—which show how widely dif-ferent, in effect, his ill-humour was from Gilbert Osmond's. Hedesired to go immediately to Rome; he would have liked to goalone, in the night-train. He hated the European railway-car-riages, in which one sat for hours in a vise, knee to knee andnose to nose with a foreigner to whom one presently foundone's self objecting with all the added vehemence of one's wishto have the window open; and if they were worse at night eventhan by day, at least at night one could sleep and dream of anAmerican saloon-car. But he couldn't take a night-train whenMiss Stackpole was starting in the morning; it struck him thatthis would be an insult to an unprotected woman. Nor could hewait until after she had gone unless he should wait longer thanhe had patience for. It wouldn't do to start the next day. Sheworried him; she oppressed him; the idea of spending the dayin a European railway-carriage with her offered a complicationof irritations. Still, she was a lady travelling alone; it was hisduty to put himself out for her. There could be no two ques-tions about that; it was a perfectly clear necessity. He lookedextremely grave for some moments and then said, whollywithout the flourish of gallantry but in a tone of extreme dis-tinctness, "Of course if you're going to-morrow I'll go too, as Imay be of assistance to you."

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"Well, Mr. Goodwood, I should hope so!" Henrietta returnedimperturbably.

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Chapter 45I have already had reason to say that Isabel knew her husbandto be displeased by the continuance of Ralph's visit to Rome.That knowledge was very present to her as she went to hercousin's hotel the day after she had invited Lord Warburton togive a tangible proof of his sincerity; and at this moment, as atothers, she had a sufficient perception of the sources ofOsmond's opposition. He wished her to have no freedom ofmind, and he knew perfectly well that Ralph was an apostle offreedom. It was just because he was this, Isabel said to herself,that it was a refreshment to go and see him. It will be per-ceived that she partook of this refreshment in spite of herhusband's aversion to it, that is partook of it, as she flatteredherself, discreetly. She had not as yet undertaken to act in dir-ect opposition to his wishes; he was her appointed and in-scribed master; she gazed at moments with a sort of incredu-lous blankness at this fact. It weighed upon her imagination,however; constantly present to her mind were all the tradition-ary decencies and sanctities of marriage. The idea of violatingthem filled her with shame as well as with dread, for on givingherself away she had lost sight of this contingency in the per-fect belief that her husband's intentions were as generous asher own. She seemed to see, none the less, the rapid approachof the day when she should have to take back something shehad solemnly bestown. Such a ceremony would be odious andmonstrous; she tried to shut her eyes to it meanwhile. Osmondwould do nothing to help it by beginning first; he would putthat burden upon her to the end. He had not yet formally for-bidden her to call upon Ralph; but she felt sure that unless Ral-ph should very soon depart this prohibition would come. Howcould poor Ralph depart? The weather as yet made it im-possible. She could perfectly understand her husband's wishfor the event; she didn't, to be just, see how he COULD like her

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to be with her cousin. Ralph never said a word against him, butOsmond's sore, mute protest was none the less founded. If heshould positively interpose, if he should put forth his authority,she would have to decide, and that wouldn't be easy. The pro-spect made her heart beat and her cheeks burn, as I say, in ad-vance; there were moments when, in her wish to avoid an openrupture, she found herself wishing Ralph would start even at arisk. And it was of no use that, when catching herself in thisstate of mind, she called herself a feeble spirit, a coward. Itwas not that she loved Ralph less, but that almost anythingseemed preferable to repudiating the most serious act—thesingle sacred act—of her life. That appeared to make the wholefuture hideous. To break with Osmond once would be to breakfor ever; any open acknowledgement of irreconcilable needswould be an admission that their whole attempt had proved afailure. For them there could be no condonement, no comprom-ise, no easy forgetfulness, no formal readjustment. They hadattempted only one thing, but that one thing was to have beenexquisite. Once they missed it nothing else would do; there wasno conceivable substitute for that success. For the moment,Isabel went to the Hotel de Paris as often as she thought well;the measure of propriety was in the canon of taste, and therecouldn't have been a better proof that morality was, so tospeak, a matter of earnest appreciation. Isabel's application ofthat measure had been particularly free to-day, for in additionto the general truth that she couldn't leave Ralph to die aloneshe had something important to ask of him. This indeed wasGilbert's business as well as her own.

She came very soon to what she wished to speak of. "I wantyou to answer me a question. It's about Lord Warburton."

"I think I guess your question," Ralph answered from hisarm-chair, out of which his thin legs protruded at greaterlength than ever.

"Very possibly you guess it. Please then answer it.""Oh, I don't say I can do that.""You're intimate with him," she said; "you've a great deal of

observation of him.""Very true. But think how he must dissimulate!""Why should he dissimulate? That's not his nature."

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"Ah, you must remember that the circumstances are peculi-ar," said Ralph with an air of private amusement.

"To a certain extent—yes. But is he really in love?""Very much, I think. I can make that out.""Ah!" said Isabel with a certain dryness.Ralph looked at her as if his mild hilarity had been touched

with mystification. "You say that as if you were disappointed."Isabel got up, slowly smoothing her gloves and eyeing them

thoughtfully. "It's after all no business of mine.""You're very philosophic," said her cousin. And then in a mo-

ment: "May I enquire what you're talking about?"Isabel stared. "I thought you knew. Lord Warburton tells me

he wants, of all things in the world, to marry Pansy. I've toldyou that before, without eliciting a comment from you. Youmight risk one this morning, I think. Is it your belief that hereally cares for her?"

"Ah, for Pansy, no!" cried Ralph very positively."But you said just now he did."Ralph waited a moment. "That he cared for you, Mrs.

Osmond."Isabel shook her head gravely. "That's nonsense, you know.""Of course it is. But the nonsense is Warburton's, not mine.""That would be very tiresome." She spoke, as she flattered

herself, with much subtlety."I ought to tell you indeed," Ralph went on, "that to me he

has denied it.""It's very good of you to talk about it together! Has he also

told you that he's in love with Pansy?""He has spoken very well of her—very properly. He has let

me know, of course, that he thinks she would do very well atLockleigh."

"Does he really think it?""Ah, what Warburton really thinks—!" said Ralph.Isabel fell to smoothing her gloves again; they were long,

loose gloves on which she could freely expend herself. Soon,however, she looked up, and then, "Ah, Ralph, you give me nohelp!" she cried abruptly and passionately.

It was the first time she had alluded to the need for help, andthe words shook her cousin with their violence. He gave a longmurmur of relief, of pity, of tenderness; it seemed to him that

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at last the gulf between them had been bridged. It was thisthat made him exclaim in a moment: "How unhappy you mustbe!"

He had no sooner spoken than she recovered her self-posses-sion, and the first use she made of it was to pretend she hadnot heard him. "When I talk of your helping me I talk greatnonsense," she said with a quick smile. "The idea of my troub-ling you with my domestic embarrassments! The matter's verysimple; Lord Warburton must get on by himself. I can't under-take to see him through."

"He ought to succeed easily," said Ralph.Isabel debated. "Yes—but he has not always succeeded.""Very true. You know, however, how that always surprised

me. Is Miss Osmond capable of giving us a surprise?""It will come from him, rather. I seem to see that after all

he'll let the matter drop.""He'll do nothing dishonourable," said Ralph."I'm very sure of that. Nothing can be more honourable than

for him to leave the poor child alone. She cares for anotherperson, and it's cruel to attempt to bribe her by magnificent of-fers to give him up."

"Cruel to the other person perhaps—the one she cares for.But Warburton isn't obliged to mind that."

"No, cruel to her," said Isabel. "She would be very unhappy ifshe were to allow herself to be persuaded to desert poor Mr.Rosier. That idea seems to amuse you; of course you're not inlove with him. He has the merit—for Pansy—of being in lovewith Pansy. She can see at a glance that Lord Warburton isn't."

"He'd be very good to her," said Ralph."He has been good to her already. Fortunately, however, he

has not said a word to disturb her. He could come and bid hergood-bye to-morrow with perfect propriety."

"How would your husband like that?""Not at all; and he may be right in not liking it. Only he must

obtain satisfaction himself.""Has he commissioned you to obtain it?" Ralph ventured to

ask."It was natural that as an old friend of Lord Warburton's—an

older friend, that is, than Gilbert—I should take an interest inhis intentions."

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"Take an interest in his renouncing them, you mean?"Isabel hesitated, frowning a little. "Let me understand. Are

you pleading his cause?""Not in the least. I'm very glad he shouldn't become your

stepdaughter's husband. It makes such a very queer relation toyou!" said Ralph, smiling. "But I'm rather nervous lest yourhusband should think you haven't pushed him enough."

Isabel found herself able to smile as well as he. "He knowsme well enough not to have expected me to push. He himselfhas no intention of pushing, I presume. I'm not afraid I shallnot be able to justify myself!" she said lightly.

Her mask had dropped for an instant, but she had put it onagain, to Ralph's infinite disappointment. He had caught aglimpse of her natural face and he wished immensely to lookinto it. He had an almost savage desire to hear her complain ofher husband—hear her say that she should be held accountablefor Lord Warburton's defection. Ralph was certain that thiswas her situation; he knew by instinct, in advance, the formthat in such an event Osmond's displeasure would take. Itcould only take the meanest and cruellest. He would have likedto warn Isabel of it—to let her see at least how he judged forher and how he knew. It little mattered that Isabel would knowmuch better; it was for his own satisfaction more than for hersthat he longed to show her he was not deceived. He tried andtried again to make her betray Osmond; he felt cold-blooded,cruel, dishonourable almost, in doing so. But it scarcelymattered, for be only failed. What had she come for then, andwhy did she seem almost to offer him a chance to violate theirtacit convention? Why did she ask him his advice if she gavehim no liberty to answer her? How could they talk of her do-mestic embarrassments, as it pleased her humorously to desig-nate them, if the principal factor was not to be mentioned?These contradictions were themselves but an indication of hertrouble, and her cry for help, just before, was the only thing hewas bound to consider. "You'll be decidedly at variance, all thesame," he said in a moment. And as she answered nothing,looking as if she scarce understood, "You'll find yourselvesthinking very differently," he continued.

"That may easily happen, among the most united couples!"She took up her parasol; he saw she was nervous, afraid of

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what he might say. "It's a matter we can hardly quarrel about,however," she added; "for almost all the interest is on his side.That's very natural. Pansy's after all his daughter—not mine."And she put out her hand to wish him goodbye.

Ralph took an inward resolution that she shouldn't leave himwithout his letting her know that he knew everything: itseemed too great an opportunity to lose. "Do you know whathis interest will make him say?" he asked as he took her hand.She shook her head, rather dryly—not discouragingly—and hewent on. "It will make him say that your want of zeal is owingto jealousy." He stopped a moment; her face made him afraid.

"To jealousy?""To jealousy of his daughter."She blushed red and threw back her head. "You're not kind,"

she said in a voice that he had never heard on her lips."Be frank with me and you'll see," he answered.But she made no reply; she only pulled her hand out of his

own, which he tried still to hold, and rapidly withdrew from theroom. She made up her mind to speak to Pansy, and she tookan occasion on the same day, going to the girl's room beforedinner. Pansy was already dressed; she was always in advanceof the time: it seemed to illustrate her pretty patience and thegraceful stillness with which she could sit and wait. At presentshe was seated, in her fresh array, before the bed-room fire;she had blown out her candles on the completion of her toilet,in accordance with the economical habits in which she hadbeen brought up sand which she was now more careful thanever to observe; so that the room was lighted only by a coupleof logs. The rooms in Palazzo Roccanera were as spacious asthey were numerous, and Pansy's virginal bower was an im-mense chamber with a dark, heavily-timbered ceiling. Its di-minutive mistress, in the midst of it, appeared but a speck ofhumanity, and as she got up, with quick deference, to welcomeIsabel, the latter was more than ever struck with her shy sin-cerity. Isabel had a difficult task—the only thing was to per-form it as simply as possible. She felt bitter and angry, but shewarned herself against betraying this heat. She was afraideven of looking too grave, or at least too stern; she was afraidof causing alarm. Put Pansy seemed to have guessed she hadcome more or less as a confessor; for after she had moved the

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chair in which she had been sitting a little nearer to the fireand Isabel had taken her place in it, she kneeled down on acushion in front of her, looking up and resting her claspedhands on her stepmother's knees. What Isabel wished to dowas to hear from her own lips that her mind was not occupiedwith Lord Warburton; but if she desired the assurance she feltherself by no means at liberty to provoke it. The girl's fatherwould have qualified this as rank treachery; and indeed Isabelknew that if Pansy should display the smallest germ of a dis-position to encourage Lord Warburton her own duty was tohold her tongue. It was difficult to interrogate without appear-ing to suggest; Pansy's supreme simplicity, an innocence evenmore complete than Isabel had yet judged it, gave to the mosttentative enquiry something of the effect of an admonition. Asshe knelt there in the vague firelight, with her pretty dressdimly shining, her hands folded half in appeal and half in sub-mission, her soft eyes, raised and fixed, full of the seriousnessof the situation, she looked to Isabel like a childish martyrdecked out for sacrifice and scarcely presuming even to hopeto avert it. When Isabel said to her that she had never yetspoken to her of what might have been going on in relation toher getting married, but that her silence had not been indiffer-ence or ignorance, had only been the desire to leave her atliberty, Pansy bent forward, raised her face nearer and nearer,and with a little murmur which evidently expressed a deeplonging, answered that she had greatly wished her to speakand that she begged her to advise her now.

"It's difficult for me to advise you," Isabel returned. "I don'tknow how I can undertake that. That's for your father; youmust get his advice and, above all, you must act on it."

At this Pansy dropped her eyes; for a moment she said noth-ing. "I think I should like your advice better than papa's," shepresently remarked.

"That's not as it should be," said Isabel coldly. "I love youvery much, but your father loves you better."

"It isn't because you love me—it's because you're a lady,"Pansy answered with the air of saying something very reason-able. "A lady can advise a young girl better than a man."

"I advise you then to pay the greatest respect to your father'swishes."

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"Ah yes," said the child eagerly, "I must do that.""But if I speak to you now about your getting married it's not

for your own sake, it's for mine," Isabel went on. "If I try tolearn from you what you expect, what you desire, it's only thatI may act accordingly."

Pansy stared, and then very quickly, "Will you do everything Iwant?" she asked.

"Before I say yes I must know what such things are."Pansy presently told her that the only thing she wanted in

life was to marry Mr. Rosier. He had asked her and she hadtold him she would do so if her papa would allow it. Now herpapa wouldn't allow it.

"Very well then, it's impossible," Isabel pronounced."Yes, it's impossible," said Pansy without a sigh and with the

same extreme attention in her clear little face."You must think of something else then," Isabel went on; but

Pansy, sighing at this, told her that she had attempted that featwithout the least success.

"You think of those who think of you," she said with a faintsmile. "I know Mr. Rosier thinks of me."

"He ought not to," said Isabel loftily. "Your father has ex-pressly requested he shouldn't."

"He can't help it, because he knows I think of HIM.""You shouldn't think of him. There's some excuse for him,

perhaps; but there's none for you.""I wish you would try to find one," the girl exclaimed as if she

were praying to the Madonna."I should be very sorry to attempt it," said the Madonna with

unusual frigidity. "If you knew some one else was thinking ofyou, would you think of him?"

"No one can think of me as Mr. Rosier does; no one has theright."

"Ah, but I don't admit Mr. Rosier's right!" Isabel hypocritic-ally cried.

Pansy only gazed at her, evidently much puzzled; and Isabel,taking advantage of it, began to represent to her the wretchedconsequences of disobeying her father. At this Pansy stoppedher with the assurance that she would never disobey him,would never marry without his consent. And she announced, inthe serenest, simplest tone, that, though she might never

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marry Mr. Rosier, she would never cease to think of him. Sheappeared to have accepted the idea of eternal singleness; butIsabel of course was free to reflect that she had no conceptionof its meaning. She was perfectly sincere; she was prepared togive up her lover. This might seem an important step towardtaking another, but for Pansy, evidently, it failed to lead in thatdirection. She felt no bitterness toward her father; there wasno bitterness in her heart; there was only the sweetness of fi-delity to Edward Rosier, and a strange, exquisite intimationthat she could prove it better by remaining single than even bymarrying him.

"Your father would like you to make a better marriage," saidIsabel. "Mr. Rosier's fortune is not at all large."

"How do you mean better—if that would be good enough?And I have myself so little money; why should I look for afortune?"

"Your having so little is a reason for looking for more." Withwhich Isabel was grateful for the dimness of the room; she feltas if her face were hideously insincere. It was what she was do-ing for Osmond; it was what one had to do for Osmond! Pansy'ssolemn eyes, fixed on her own, almost embarrassed her; shewas ashamed to think she had made so light of the girl'spreference.

"What should you like me to do?" her companion softlydemanded.

The question was a terrible one, and Isabel took refuge intimorous vagueness. "To remember all the pleasure it's in yourpower to give your father."

"To marry some one else, you mean—if he should ask me?"For a moment Isabel's answer caused itself to be waited for;

then she heard herself utter it in the stillness that Pansy's at-tention seemed to make. "Yes—to marry some one else."

The child's eyes grew more penetrating; Isabel believed shewas doubting her sincerity, and the impression took force fromher slowly getting up from her cushion. She stood there a mo-ment with her small hands unclasped and then quavered out:"Well, I hope no one will ask me!"

"There has been a question of that. Some one else wouldhave been ready to ask you."

"I don't think he can have been ready," said Pansy.

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"It would appear so if he had been sure he'd succeed.""If he had been sure? Then he wasn't ready!"Isabel thought this rather sharp; she also got up and stood a

moment looking into the fire. "Lord Warburton has shown yougreat attention," she resumed; "of course you know it's of him Ispeak." She found herself, against her expectation, almostplaced in the position of justifying herself; which led her to in-troduce this nobleman more crudely than she had intended.

"He has been very kind to me, and I like him very much. Butif you mean that he'll propose for me I think you're mistaken."

"Perhaps I am. But your father would like it extremely."Pansy shook her head with a little wise smile. "Lord Warbur-

ton won't propose simply to please papa.""Your father would like you to encourage him," Isabel went

on mechanically."How can I encourage him?""I don't know. Your father must tell you that."Pansy said nothing for a moment; she only continued to smile

as if she were in possession of a bright assurance. "There's nodanger—no danger!" she declared at last.

There was a conviction in the way she said this, and a felicityin her believing it, which conduced to Isabel's awkwardness.She felt accused of dishonesty, and the idea was disgusting. Torepair her self-respect she was on the point of saying that LordWarburton had let her know that there was a danger. But shedidn't; she only said—in her embarrassment rather wide of themark—that he surely had been most kind, most friendly.

"Yes, he has been very kind," Pansy answered. "That's what Ilike him for."

"Why then is the difficulty so great?""I've always felt sure of his knowing that I don't want—what

did you say I should do?—to encourage him. He knows I don'twant to marry, and he wants me to know that he thereforewon't trouble me. That's the meaning of his kindness. It's as ifhe said to me: 'I like you very much, but if it doesn't please youI'll never say it again.' I think that's very kind, very noble,"Pansy went on with deepening positiveness. "That is all we'vesaid to each other. And he doesn't care for me either. Ah no,there's no danger."

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Isabel was touched with wonder at the depths of perceptionof which this submissive little person was capable; she feltafraid of Pansy's wisdom—began almost to retreat before it."You must tell your father that," she remarked reservedly.

"I think I'd rather not," Pansy unreservedly answered."You oughtn't to let him have false hopes.""Perhaps not; but it will be good for me that he should. So

long as he believes that Lord Warburton intends anything ofthe kind you say, papa won't propose any one else. And thatwill be an advantage for me," said the child very lucidly.

There was something brilliant in her lucidity, and it made hercompanion draw a long breath. It relieved this friend of aheavy responsibility. Pansy had a sufficient illumination of herown, and Isabel felt that she herself just now had no light tospare from her small stock. Nevertheless it still clung to herthat she must be loyal to Osmond, that she was on her honourin dealing with his daughter. Under the influence of this senti-ment she threw out another suggestion before she retired—asuggestion with which it seemed to her that she should havedone her utmost.

"Your father takes for granted at least that you would like tomarry a nobleman."

Pansy stood in the open doorway; she had drawn back thecurtain for Isabel to pass. "I think Mr. Rosier looks like one!"she remarked very gravely.

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Chapter 46Lord Warburton was not seen in Mrs. Osmond's drawing-roomfor several days, and Isabel couldn't fail to observe that herhusband said nothing to her about having received a letterfrom him. She couldn't fail to observe, either, that Osmond wasin a state of expectancy and that, though it was not agreeableto him to betray it, he thought their distinguished friend kepthim waiting quite too long. At the end of four days he alludedto his absence.

"What has become of Warburton? What does he mean bytreating one like a tradesman with a bill?"

"I know nothing about him," Isabel said. "I saw him last Fri-day at the German ball. He told me then that he meant to writeto you."

"He has never written to me.""So I supposed, from your not having told me.""He's an odd fish," said Osmond comprehensively. And on

Isabel's making no rejoinder he went on to enquire whether ittook his lordship five days to indite a letter. "Does he form hiswords with such difficulty?"

"I don't know," Isabel was reduced to replying. "I've neverhad a letter from him."

"Never had a letter? I had an idea that you were at one timein intimate correspondence."

She answered that this had not been the case, and let theconversation drop. On the morrow, however, coming into thedrawing-room late in the afternoon, her husband took it upagain.

"When Lord Warburton told you of his intention of writingwhat did you say to him?" he asked.

She just faltered. "I think I told him not to forget it."Did you believe there was a danger of that?""As you say, he's an odd fish."

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"Apparently he has forgotten it," said Osmond. "Be so goodas to remind him."

"Should you like me to write to him?" she demanded."I've no objection whatever.""You expect too much of me.""Ah yes, I expect a great deal of you.""I'm afraid I shall disappoint you," said Isabel."My expectations have survived a good deal of

disappointment.""Of course I know that. Think how I must have disappointed

myself! If you really wish hands laid on Lord Warburton youmust lay them yourself."

For a couple of minutes Osmond answered nothing; then hesaid: "That won't be easy, with you working against me."

Isabel started; she felt herself beginning to tremble. He hada way of looking at her through half-closed eyelids, as if hewere thinking of her but scarcely saw her, which seemed toher to have a wonderfully cruel intention. It appeared to recog-nise her as a disagreeable necessity of thought, but to ignoreher for the time as a presence. That effect had never been somarked as now. "I think you accuse me of something verybase," she returned.

"I accuse you of not being trustworthy. If he doesn't after allcome forward it will be because you've kept him off. I don'tknow that it's base: it is the kind of thing a woman alwaysthinks she may do. I've no doubt you've the finest ideas aboutit."

"I told you I would do what I could," she went on."Yes, that gained you time."It came over her, after he had said this, that she had once

thought him beautiful. "How much you must want to make sureof him!" she exclaimed in a moment.

She had no sooner spoken than she perceived the full reachof her words, of which she had not been conscious in utteringthem. They made a comparison between Osmond and herself,recalled the fact that she had once held this coveted treasurein her hand and felt herself rich enough to let it fall. A moment-ary exultation took possession of her—a horrible delight in hav-ing wounded him; for his face instantly told her that none ofthe force of her exclamation was lost. He expressed nothing

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otherwise, however; he only said quickly: "Yes, I want itimmensely."

At this moment a servant came in to usher a visitor, and hewas followed the next by Lord Warburton, who received a vis-ible check on seeing Osmond. He looked rapidly from the mas-ter of the house to the mistress; a movement that seemed todenote a reluctance to interrupt or even a perception of omin-ous conditions. Then he advanced, with his English address, inwhich a vague shyness seemed to offer itself as an element ofgood-breeding; in which the only defect was a difficulty inachieving transitions. Osmond was embarrassed; he foundnothing to say; but Isabel remarked, promptly enough, thatthey had been in the act of talking about their visitor. Uponthis her husband added that they hadn't known what was be-come of him—they had been afraid he had gone away. "No," heexplained, smiling and looking at Osmond; "I'm only on thepoint of going." And then he mentioned that he found himselfsuddenly recalled to England: he should start on the morrow orthe day after. "I'm awfully sorry to leave poor Touchett!" heended by exclaiming.

For a moment neither of his companions spoke; Osmond onlyleaned back in his chair, listening. Isabel didn't look at him;she could only fancy how he looked. Her eyes were on theirvisitor's face, where they were the more free to rest that thoseof his lordship carefully avoided them. Yet Isabel was sure thathad she met his glance she would have found it expressive."You had better take poor Touchett with you," she heard herhusband say, lightly enough, in a moment.

"He had better wait for warmer weather," Lord Warburtonanswered. "I shouldn't advise him to travel just now."

He sat there a quarter of an hour, talking as if he might notsoon see them again—unless indeed they should come to Eng-land, a course he strongly recommended. Why shouldn't theycome to England in the autumn?—that struck him as a veryhappy thought. It would give him such pleasure to do what hecould for them—to have them come and spend a month withhim. Osmond, by his own admission, had been to England butonce; which was an absurd state of things for a man of his leis-ure and intelligence. It was just the country for him—he wouldbe sure to get on well there. Then Lord Warburton asked

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Isabel if she remembered what a good time she had had thereand if she didn't want to try it again. Didn't she want to seeGardencourt once more? Gardencourt was really very good.Touchett didn't take proper care of it, but it was the sort ofplace you could hardly spoil by letting it alone. Why didn't theycome and pay Touchett a visit? He surely must have askedthem. Hadn't asked them? What an ill-mannered wretch! —andLord Warburton promised to give the master of Gardencourt apiece of his mind. Of course it was a mere accident; he wouldbe delighted to have them. Spending a month with Touchettand a month with himself, and seeing all the rest of the peoplethey must know there, they really wouldn't find it half bad.Lord Warburton added that it would amuse Miss Osmond aswell, who had told him that she had never been to England andwhom he had assured it was a country she deserved to see. Ofcourse she didn't need to go to England to be admired—thatwas her fate everywhere; but she would be an immense suc-cess there, she certainly would, if that was any inducement. Heasked if she were not at home: couldn't he say good-bye? Notthat he liked good-byes—he always funked them. When he leftEngland the other day he hadn't said good-bye to a two-leggedcreature. He had had half a mind to leave Rome without troub-ling Mrs. Osmond for a final interview. What could be moredreary than final interviews? One never said the things onewanted—one remembered them all an hour afterwards. On theother hand one usually said a lot of things one shouldn't,simply from a sense that one had to say something. Such asense was upsetting; it muddled one's wits. He had it atpresent, and that was the effect it produced on him. If Mrs. Os-mond didn't think he spoke as he ought she must set it down toagitation; it was no light thing to part with Mrs. Osmond. Hewas really very sorry to be going. He had thought of writing toher instead of calling—but he would write to her at any rate, totell her a lot of things that would be sure to occur to him assoon as he had left the house. They must think seriously aboutcoming to Lockleigh.

If there was anything awkward in the conditions of his visitor in the announcement of his departure it failed to come tothe surface. Lord Warburton talked about his agitation; but heshowed it in no other manner, and Isabel saw that since he had

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determined on a retreat he was capable of executing it gal-lantly. She was very glad for him; she liked him quite wellenough to wish him to appear to carry a thing off. He would dothat on any occasion—not from impudence but simply from thehabit of success; and Isabel felt it out of her husband's powerto frustrate this faculty. A complex operation, as she sat there,went on in her mind. On one side she listened to their visitor;said what was proper to him; read, more or less, between thelines of what he said himself; and wondered how he wouldhave spoken if he had found her alone. On the other she had aperfect consciousness of Osmond's emotion. She felt almostsorry for him; he was condemned to the sharp pain of losswithout the relief of cursing. He had had a great hope, andnow, as he saw it vanish into smoke, he was obliged to sit andsmile and twirl his thumbs. Not that he troubled himself tosmile very brightly; he treated their friend on the whole to asvacant a countenance as so clever a man could very well wear.It was indeed a part of Osmond's cleverness that he could lookconsummately uncompromised. His present appearance,however, was not a confession of disappointment; it was simplya part of Osmond's habitual system, which was to be inexpress-ive exactly in proportion as he was really intent. He had beenintent on this prize from the first; but he had never allowed hiseagerness to irradiate his refined face. He had treated hispossible son-in-law as he treated every one—with an air of be-ing interested in him only for his own advantage, not for anyprofit to a person already so generally, so perfectly provided asGilbert Osmond. He would give no sign now of an inward ragewhich was the result of a vanished prospect of gain—not thefaintest nor subtlest. Isabel could be sure of that, if it was anysatisfaction to her. Strangely, very strangely, it was a satisfac-tion; she wished Lord Warburton to triumph before her hus-band, and at the same time she wished her husband to be verysuperior before Lord Warburton. Osmond, in his way, was ad-mirable; he had, like their visitor, the advantage of an acquiredhabit. It was not that of succeeding, but it was something al-most as good—that of not attempting. As he leaned back in hisplace, listening but vaguely to the other's friendly offers andsuppressed explanations—as if it were only proper to assumethat they were addressed essentially to his wife—he had at

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least (since so little else was left him) the comfort of thinkinghow well he personally had kept out of it, and how the air of in-difference, which he was now able to wear, had the addedbeauty of consistency. It was something to be able to look as ifthe leave-taker's movements had no relation to his own mind.The latter did well, certainly; but Osmond's performance wasin its very nature more finished. Lord Warburton's position wasafter all an easy one; there was no reason in the world why heshouldn't leave Rome. He had had beneficent inclinations, butthey had stopped short of fruition; he had never committedhimself, and his honour was safe. Osmond appeared to take buta moderate interest in the proposal that they should go andstay with him and in his allusion to the success Pansy might ex-tract from their visit. He murmured a recognition, but left Isa-bel to say that it was a matter requiring grave consideration.Isabel, even while she made this remark, could see the greatvista which had suddenly opened out in her husband's mind,with Pansy's little figure marching up the middle of it.

Lord Warburton had asked leave to bid good-bye to Pansy,but neither Isabel nor Osmond had made any motion to sendfor her. He had the air of giving out that his visit must beshort; he sat on a small chair, as if it were only for a moment,keeping his hat in his hand. But he stayed and stayed; Isabelwondered what he was waiting for. She believed it was not tosee Pansy; she had an impression that on the whole he wouldrather not see Pansy. It was of course to see herself alone—hehad something to say to her. Isabel had no great wish to hearit, for she was afraid it would be an explanation, and she couldperfectly dispense with explanations. Osmond, however,presently got up, like a man of good taste to whom it had oc-curred that so inveterate a visitor might wish to say just thelast word of all to the ladies. "I've a letter to write before din-ner," he said; "you must excuse me. I'll see if my daughter'sdisengaged, and if she is she shall know you're here. Of coursewhen you come to Rome you'll always look us up. Mrs. Osmondwill talk to you about the English expedition: she decides allthose things."

The nod with which, instead of a hand-shake, he wound upthis little speech was perhaps rather a meagre form of saluta-tion; but on the whole it was all the occasion demanded. Isabel

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reflected that after he left the room Lord Warburton wouldhave no pretext for saying, "Your husband's very angry"; whichwould have been extremely disagreeable to her. Nevertheless,if he had done so, she would have said: "Oh, don't be anxious.He doesn't hate you: it's me that he hates!"

It was only when they had been left alone together that herfriend showed a certain vague awkwardness—sitting down inanother chair, handling two or three of the objects that werenear him. "I hope he'll make Miss Osmond come," he presentlyremarked. "I want very much to see her."

"I'm glad it's the last time," said Isabel."So am I. She doesn't care for me.""No, she doesn't care for you.""I don't wonder at it," he returned. Then he added with in-

consequence: "You'll come to England, won't you?""I think we had better not.""Ah, you owe me a visit. Don't you remember that you were

to have come to Lockleigh once, and you never did?""Everything's changed since then," said Isabel."Not changed for the worse, surely—as far as we're con-

cerned. To see you under my roof"—and he hung fire but an in-stant—"would be a great satisfaction."

She had feared an explanation; but that was the only onethat occurred. They talked a little of Ralph, and in another mo-ment Pansy came in, already dressed for dinner and with alittle red spot in either cheek. She shook hands with Lord War-burton and stood looking up into his face with a fixed smile—asmile that Isabel knew, though his lordship probably never sus-pected it, to be near akin to a burst of tears.

"I'm going away," he said. "I want to bid you good-bye.""Good-bye, Lord Warburton." Her voice perceptibly trembled."And I want to tell you how much I wish you may be very

happy.""Thank you, Lord Warburton," Pansy answered.He lingered a moment and gave a glance at Isabel. "You

ought to be very happy—you've got a guardian angel.""I'm sure I shall be happy," said Pansy in the tone of a person

whose certainties were always cheerful."Such a conviction as that will take you a great way. But if it

should ever fail you, remember—remember—" And her

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interlocutor stammered a little. "Think of me sometimes, youknow!" he said with a vague laugh. Then he shook hands withIsabel in silence, and presently he was gone.

When he had left the room she expected an effusion of tearsfrom her stepdaughter; but Pansy in fact treated her tosomething very different.

"I think you ARE my guardian angel!" she exclaimed verysweetly.

Isabel shook her head. "I'm not an angel of any kind. I'm atthe most your good friend."

"You're a very good friend then—to have asked papa to begentle with me."

"I've asked your father nothing," said Isabel, wondering."He told me just now to come to the drawing-room, and then

he gave me a very kind kiss.""Ah," said Isabel, "that was quite his own idea!"She recognised the idea perfectly; it was very characteristic,

and she was to see a great deal more of it. Even with Pansy hecouldn't put himself the least in the wrong. They were diningout that day, and after their dinner they went to another enter-tainment; so that it was not till late in the evening that Isabelsaw him alone. When Pansy kissed him before going to bed hereturned her embrace with even more than his usual munifi-cence, and Isabel wondered if he meant it as a hint that hisdaughter had been injured by the machinations of her step-mother. It was a partial expression, at any rate, of what he con-tinued to expect of his wife. She was about to follow Pansy, buthe remarked that he wished she would remain; he hadsomething to say to her. Then he walked about the drawing-room a little, while she stood waiting in her cloak.

"I don't understand what you wish to do," he said in a mo-ment. "I should like to know—so that I may know how to act."

"Just now I wish to go to bed. I'm very tired.""Sit down and rest; I shall not keep you long. Not there—take

a comfortable place." And he arranged a multitude of cushionsthat were scattered in picturesque disorder upon a vast divan.This was not, however, where she seated herself; she droppedinto the nearest chair. The fire had gone out; the lights in thegreat room were few. She drew her cloak about her; she felt

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mortally cold. "I think you're trying to humiliate me," Osmondwent on. "It's a most absurd undertaking."

"I haven't the least idea what you mean," she returned."You've played a very deep game; you've managed it

beautifully.""What is it that I've managed?""You've not quite settled it, however; we shall see him

again." And he stopped in front of her, with his hands in hispockets, looking down at her thoughtfully, in his usual way,which seemed meant to let her know that she was not an ob-ject, but only a rather disagreeable incident, of thought.

"If you mean that Lord Warburton's under an obligation tocome back you're wrong," Isabel said. "He's under nonewhatever."

"That's just what I complain of. But when I say he'll comeback I don't mean he'll come from a sense of duty."

"There's nothing else to make him. I think he has quite ex-hausted Rome."

"Ah no, that's a shallow judgement. Rome's inexhaustible."And Osmond began to walk about again. "However, about thatperhaps there's no hurry," he added. "It's rather a good idea ofhis that we should go to England. If it were not for the fear offinding your cousin there I think I should try to persuade you."

"It may be that you'll not find my cousin," said Isabel."I should like to be sure of it. However, I shall be as sure as

possible. At the same time I should like to see his house, thatyou told me so much about at one time: what do you call it?—Gardencourt. It must be a charming thing. And then, you know,I've a devotion to the memory of your uncle: you made me takea great fancy to him. I should like to see where he lived anddied. That indeed is a detail. Your friend was right. Pansyought to see England."

"I've no doubt she would enjoy it," said Isabel."But that's a long time hence; next autumn's far off," Osmond

continued; "and meantime there are things that more nearly in-terest us. Do you think me so very proud?" he suddenly asked.

"I think you very strange.""You don't understand me.""No, not even when you insult me."

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"I don't insult you; I'm incapable of it. I merely speak of cer-tain facts, and if the allusion's an injury to you the fault's notmine. It's surely a fact that you have kept all this matter quitein your own hands."

"Are you going back to Lord Warburton?" Isabel asked. "I'mvery tired of his name."

"You shall hear it again before we've done with it."She had spoken of his insulting her, but it suddenly seemed

to her that this ceased to be a pain. He was going down—down;the vision of such a fall made her almost giddy: that was theonly pain. He was too strange, too different; he didn't touchher. Still, the working of his morbid passion was extraordinary,and she felt a rising curiosity to know in what light he saw him-self justified. "I might say to you that I judge you've nothing tosay to me that's worth hearing," she returned in a moment."But I should perhaps be wrong. There's a thing that would beworth my hearing—to know in the plainest words of what it isyou accuse me."

"Of having prevented Pansy's marriage to Warburton. Arethose words plain enough?"

"On the contrary, I took a great interest in it. I told you so;and when you told me that you counted on me—that I thinkwas what you said—I accepted the obligation. I was a fool to doso, but I did it."

"You pretended to do it, and you even pretended reluctanceto make me more willing to trust you. Then you began to useyour ingenuity to get him out of the way."

"I think I see what you mean," said Isabel."Where's the letter you told me he had written me?" her hus-

band demanded."I haven't the least idea; I haven't asked him.""You stopped it on the way," said Osmond.Isabel slowly got up; standing there in her white cloak, which

covered her to her feet, she might have represented the angelof disdain, first cousin to that of pity. "Oh, Gilbert, for a manwho was so fine—!" she exclaimed in a long murmur.

"I was never so fine as you. You've done everything youwanted. You've got him out of the say without appearing to doso, and you've placed me in the position in which you wished to

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see me— that of a man who has tried to marry his daughter toa lord, but has grotesquely failed."

"Pansy doesn't care for him. She's very glad he's gone," Isa-bel said.

"That has nothing to do with the matter.""And he doesn't care for Pansy.""That won't do; you told me he did. I don't know why you

wanted this particular satisfaction," Osmond continued; "youmight have taken some other. It doesn't seem to me that I'vebeen presumptuous—that I have taken too much for granted.I've been very modest about it, very quiet. The idea didn't ori-ginate with me. He began to show that he liked her before Iever thought of it. I left it all to you."

"Yes, you were very glad to leave it to me. After this youmust attend to such things yourself."

He looked at her a moment; then he turned away. "I thoughtyou were very fond of my daughter."

"I've never been more so than to-day.""Your affection is attended with immense limitations.

However, that perhaps is natural.""Is this all you wished to say to me?" Isabel asked, taking a

candle that stood on one of the tables."Are you satisfied? Am I sufficiently disappointed?""I don't think that on the whole you're disappointed. You've

had another opportunity to try to stupefy me.""It's not that. It's proved that Pansy can aim high.""Poor little Pansy!" said Isabel as she turned away with her

candle.

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Chapter 47It was from Henrietta Stackpole that she learned how CasparGoodwood had come to Rome; an event that took place threedays after Lord Warburton's departure. This latter fact hadbeen preceded by an incident of some importance to Isa-bel—the temporary absence, once again, of Madame Merle,who had gone to Naples to stay with a friend, the happy pos-sessor of a villa at Posilippo. Madame Merle had ceased to min-ister to Isabel's happiness, who found herself wonderingwhether the most discreet of women might not also by chancebe the most dangerous. Sometimes, at night, she had strangevisions; she seemed to see her husband and her friend—hisfriend—in dim, indistinguishable combination. It seemed to herthat she had not done with her; this lady had something in re-serve. Isabel's imagination applied itself actively to this elusivepoint, but every now and then it was checked by a namelessdread, so that when the charming woman was away from Romeshe had almost a consciousness of respite. She had alreadylearned from Miss Stackpole that Caspar Goodwood was inEurope, Henrietta having written to make it known to her im-mediately after meeting him in Paris. He himself never wroteto Isabel, and though he was in Europe she thought it very pos-sible he might not desire to see her. Their last interview, be-fore her marriage, had had quite the character of a completerupture; if she remembered rightly he had said he wished totake his last look at her. Since then he had been the most dis-cordant survival of her earlier time—the only one in fact withwhich a permanent pain was associated. He had left her thatmorning with a sense of the most superfluous of shocks: it waslike a collision between vessels in broad daylight. There hadbeen no mist, no hidden current to excuse it, and she herselfhad only wished to steer wide. He had bumped against herprow, however, while her hand was on the tiller, and—to

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complete the metaphor—had given the lighter vessel a strainwhich still occasionally betrayed itself in a faint creaking. Ithad been horrid to see him, because he represented the onlyserious harm that (to her belief) she had ever done in theworld: he was the only person with an unsatisfied claim on her.She had made him unhappy, she couldn't help it; and his un-happiness was a grim reality. She had cried with rage, after hehad left her, at—she hardly knew what: she tried to think it hadbeen at his want of consideration. He had come to her with hisunhappiness when her own bliss was so perfect; he had donehis best to darken the brightness of those pure rays. He hadnot been violent, and yet there had been a violence in the im-pression. There had been a violence at any rate in somethingsomewhere; perhaps it was only in her own fit of weeping andin that after-sense of the same which had lasted three or fourdays.

The effect of his final appeal had in short faded away, and allthe first year of her marriage he had dropped out of her books.He was a thankless subject of reference; it was disagreeable tohave to think of a person who was sore and sombre about youand whom you could yet do nothing to relieve. It would havebeen different if she had been able to doubt, even a little, of hisunreconciled state, as she doubted of Lord Warburton's; unfor-tunately it was beyond question, and this aggressive, uncom-promising look of it was just what made it unattractive. Shecould never say to herself that here was a sufferer who hadcompensations, as she was able to say in the case of her Eng-lish suitor. She had no faith in Mr. Goodwood's compensationsand no esteem for them. A cotton factory was not a compensa-tion for anything—least of all for having failed to marry IsabelArcher. And yet, beyond that, she hardly knew what hehad—save of course his intrinsic qualities. Oh, he was intrinsicenough; she never thought of his even looking for artificialaids. If he extended his business—that, to the best of her belief,was the only form exertion could take with him—it would bebecause it was an enterprising thing, or good for the business;not in the least because he might hope it would overlay thepast. This gave his figure a kind of bareness and bleaknesswhich made the accident of meeting it in memory or in appre-hension a peculiar concussion; it was deficient in the social

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drapery commonly muffling, in an overcivilized age, the sharp-ness of human contacts. His perfect silence, moreover, the factthat she never heard from him and very seldom heard any men-tion of him, deepened this impression of his loneliness. Sheasked Lily for news of him, from time to time; but Lily knewnothing of Boston—her imagination was all bounded on theeast by Madison Avenue. As time went on Isabel had thought ofhim oftener, and with fewer restrictions; she had had morethan once the idea of writing to him. She had never told herhusband about him—never let Osmond know of his visits to herin Florence; a reserve not dictated in the early period by awant of confidence in Osmond, but simply by the considerationthat the young man's disappointment was not her secret buthis own. It would be wrong of her, she had believed, to conveyit to another, and Mr. Goodwood's affairs could have, after all,little interest for Gilbert. When it had come to the point shehad never written to him; it seemed to her that, considering hisgrievance, the least she could do was to let him alone. Never-theless she would have been glad to be in some way nearer tohim. It was not that it ever occurred to her that she might havemarried him; even after the consequences of her actual unionhad grown vivid to her that particular reflection, though she in-dulged in so many, had not had the assurance to present itself.But on finding herself in trouble he had become a member ofthat circle of things with which she wished to set herself right.I have mentioned how passionately she needed to feel that herunhappiness should not have come to her through her ownfault. She had no near prospect of dying, and yet she wished tomake her peace with the world— to put her spiritual affairs inorder. It came back to her from time to time that there was anaccount still to be settled with Caspar, and she saw herself dis-posed or able to settle it to-day on terms easier for him thanever before. Still, when she learned he was coming to Romeshe felt all afraid; it would be more disagreeable for him thanfor any one else to make out—since he WOULD make it out, asover a falsified balance-sheet or something of that sort—the in-timate disarray of her affairs. Deep in her breast she believedthat he had invested his all in her happiness, while the othershad invested only a part. He was one more person from whomshe should have to conceal her stress. She was reassured,

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however, after he arrived in Rome, for he spent several dayswithout coming to see her.

Henrietta Stackpole, it may well be imagined, was morepunctual, and Isabel was largely favoured with the society ofher friend. She threw herself into it, for now that she had madesuch a point of keeping her conscience clear, that was one wayof proving she had not been superficial—the more so as theyears, in their flight, had rather enriched than blighted thosepeculiarities which had been humorously criticised by personsless interested than Isabel, and which were still markedenough to give loyalty a spice of heroism. Henrietta was askeen and quick and fresh as ever, and as neat and bright andfair. Her remarkably open eyes, lighted like great glazedrailway-stations, had put up no shutters; her attire had lostnone of its crispness, her opinions none of their national refer-ence. She was by no means quite unchanged, however it struckIsabel she had grown vague. Of old she had never been vague;though undertaking many enquiries at once, she had managedto be entire and pointed about each. She had a reason foreverything she did; she fairly bristled with motives. Formerly,when she came to Europe it was because she wished to see it,but now, having already seen it, she had no such excuse. Shedidn't for a moment pretend that the desire to examine decay-ing civilisations had anything to do with her present enter-prise; her journey was rather an expression of her independ-ence of the old world than of a sense of further obligations toit. "It's nothing to come to Europe," she said to Isabel; "itdoesn't seem to me one needs so many reasons for that. It issomething to stay at home; this is much more important." Itwas not therefore with a sense of doing anything very import-ant that she treated herself to another pilgrimage to Rome; shehad seen the place before and carefully inspected it; herpresent act was simply a sign of familiarity, of her knowing allabout it, of her having as good a right as any one else to bethere. This was all very well, and Henrietta was restless; shehad a perfect right to be restless too, if one came to that. Butshe had after all a better reason for coming to Rome than thatshe cared for it so little. Her friend easily recognised it, andwith it the worth of the other's fidelity. She had crossed thestormy ocean in midwinter because she had guessed that

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Isabel was sad. Henrietta guessed a great deal, but she hadnever guessed so happily as that. Isabel's satisfactions just nowwere few, but even if they had been more numerous therewould still have been something of individual joy in her senseof being justified in having always thought highly of Henrietta.She had made large concessions with regard to her, and hadyet insisted that, with all abatements, she was very valuable. Itwas not her own triumph, however, that she found good; it wassimply the relief of confessing to this confidant, the first personto whom she had owned it, that she was not in the least at herease. Henrietta had herself approached this point with thesmallest possible delay, and had accused her to her face of be-ing wretched. She was a woman, she was a sister; she was notRalph, nor Lord Warburton, nor Caspar Goodwood, and Isabelcould speak.

"Yes, I'm wretched," she said very mildly. She hated to hearherself say it; she tried to say it as judicially as possible.

"What does he do to you?" Henrietta asked, frowning as ifshe were enquiring into the operations of a quack doctor.

"He does nothing. But he doesn't like me.""He's very hard to please!" cried Miss Stackpole. "Why don't

you leave him?""I can't change that way," Isabel said."Why not, I should like to know? You won't confess that

you've made a mistake. You're too proud.""I don't know whether I'm too proud. But I can't publish my

mistake. I don't think that's decent. I'd much rather die.""You won't think so always," said Henrietta."I don't know what great unhappiness might bring me to; but

it seems to me I shall always be ashamed. One must acceptone's deeds. I married him before all the world; I was perfectlyfree; it was impossible to do anything more deliberate. Onecan't change that way," Isabel repeated.

"You HAVE changed, in spite of the impossibility. I hope youdon't mean to say you like him."

Isabel debated. "No, I don't like him. I can tell you, becauseI'm weary of my secret. But that's enough; I can't announce iton the housetops."

Henrietta gave a laugh. "Don't you think you're rather tooconsiderate?"

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"It's not of him that I'm considerate—it's of myself!" Isabelanswered.

It was not surprising Gilbert Osmond should not have takencomfort in Miss Stackpole; his instinct had naturally set him inopposition to a young lady capable of advising his wife to with-draw from the conjugal roof. When she arrived in Rome he hadsaid to Isabel that he hoped she would leave her friend the in-terviewer alone; and Isabel had answered that he at least hadnothing to fear from her. She said to Henrietta that as Osmonddidn't like her she couldn't invite her to dine, but they couldeasily see each other in other ways. Isabel received Miss Stack-pole freely in her own sitting-room, and took her repeatedly todrive, face to face with Pansy, who, bending a little forward, onthe opposite seat of the carriage, gazed at the celebratedauthoress with a respectful attention which Henrietta occa-sionally found irritating. She complained to Isabel that MissOsmond had a little look as if she should remember everythingone said. "I don't want to be remembered that way," MissStackpole declared; "I consider that my conversation refersonly to the moment, like the morning papers. Your stepdaugh-ter, as she sits there, looks as if she kept all the back numbersand would bring them out some day against me." She could notteach herself to think favourably of Pansy, whose absence ofinitiative, of conversation, of personal claims, seemed to her, ina girl of twenty, unnatural and even uncanny. Isabel presentlysaw that Osmond would have liked her to urge a little thecause of her friend, insist a little upon his receiving her, so thathe might appear to suffer for good manners' sake. Her immedi-ate acceptance of his objections put him too much in thewrong—it being in effect one of the disadvantages of express-ing contempt that you cannot enjoy at the same time the creditof expressing sympathy. Osmond held to his credit, and yet heheld to his objections— all of which were elements difficult toreconcile. The right thing would have been that Miss Stackpoleshould come to dine at Palazzo Roccanera once or twice, sothat (in spite of his superficial civility, always so great) shemight judge for herself how little pleasure it gave him. Fromthe moment, however, that both the ladies were so unaccom-modating, there was nothing for Osmond but to wish the ladyfrom New York would take herself off. It was surprising how

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little satisfaction he got from his wife's friends; he took occa-sion to call Isabel's attention to it.

"You're certainly not fortunate in your intimates; I wish youmight make a new collection," he said to her one morning inreference to nothing visible at the moment, but in a tone ofripe reflection which deprived the remark of all brutal abrupt-ness. "It's as if you had taken the trouble to pick out the peoplein the world that I have least in common with. Your cousin Ihave always thought a conceited ass—besides his being themost ill-favoured animal I know. Then it's insufferably tiresomethat one can't tell him so; one must spare him on account of hishealth. His health seems to me the best part of him; it giveshim privileges enjoyed by no one else. If he's so desperately illthere's only one way to prove it; but he seems to have no mindfor that. I can't say much more for the great Warburton. Whenone really thinks of it, the cool insolence of that performancewas something rare! He comes and looks at one's daughter asif she were a suite of apartments; he tries the door-handles andlooks out of the windows, raps on the walls and almost thinkshe'll take the place. Will you be so good as to draw up a lease?Then, on the whole, he decides that the rooms are too small; hedoesn't think he could live on a third floor; he must look out fora piano nobile. And he goes away after having got a month'slodging in the poor little apartment for nothing. Miss Stack-pole, however, is your most wonderful invention. She strikesme as a kind of monster. One hasn't a nerve in one's body thatshe doesn't set quivering. You know I never have admitted thatshe's a woman. Do you know what she reminds me of? Of anew steel pen— the most odious thing in nature. She talks as asteel pen writes; aren't her letters, by the way, on ruled paper?She thinks and moves and walks and looks exactly as she talks.You may say that she doesn't hurt me, inasmuch as I don't seeher. I don't see her, but I hear her; I hear her all day long. Hervoice is in my ears; I can't get rid of it. I know exactly what shesays, and every inflexion of the tone in which she says it. Shesays charming things about me, and they give you great com-fort. I don't like at all to think she talks about me—I feel as Ishould feel if I knew the footman were wearing my hat."

Henrietta talked about Gilbert Osmond, as his wife assuredhim, rather less than he suspected. She had plenty of other

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subjects, in two of which the reader may be supposed to be es-pecially interested. She let her friend know that Caspar Good-wood had discovered for himself that she was unhappy, thoughindeed her ingenuity was unable to suggest what comfort hehoped to give her by coming to Rome and yet not calling onher. They met him twice in the street, but he had no appear-ance of seeing them; they were driving, and he had a habit oflooking straight in front of him, as if he proposed to take in butone object at a time. Isabel could have fancied she had seenhim the day before; it must have been with just that face andstep that he had walked out of Mrs. Touchett's door at theclose of their last interview. He was dressed just as he hadbeen dressed on that day, Isabel remembered the colour of hiscravat; and yet in spite of this familiar look there was astrangeness in his figure too, something that made her feel itafresh to be rather terrible he should have come to Rome. Helooked bigger and more overtopping than of old, and in thosedays he certainly reached high enough. She noticed that thepeople whom he passed looked back after him; but he wentstraight forward, lifting above them a face like a February sky.

Miss Stackpole's other topic was very different; she gave Isa-bel the latest news about Mr. Bantling. He had been out in theUnited States the year before, and she was happy to say shehad been able to show him considerable attention. She didn'tknow how much he had enjoyed it, but she would undertake tosay it had done him good; he wasn't the same man when he leftas he had been when be came. It had opened his eyes andshown him that England wasn't everything. He had been verymuch liked in most places, and thought extremelysimple—more simple than the English were commonly sup-posed to be. There were people who had thought him affected;she didn't know whether they meant that his simplicity was anaffectation. Some of his questions were too discouraging; hethought all the chambermaids were farmers' daughters—or allthe farmers' daughters were chambermaids—she couldn't ex-actly remember which. He hadn't seemed able to grasp thegreat school system; it had been really too much for him. Onthe whole he had behaved as if there were too much ofeverything—as if he could only take in a small part. The part hehad chosen was the hotel system and the river navigation. He

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had seemed really fascinated with the hotels; he had a photo-graph of every one he had visited. But the river steamers werehis principal interest; he wanted to do nothing but sail on thebig boats. They had travelled together from New York to Mil-waukee, stopping at the most interesting cities on the route;and whenever they started afresh he had wanted to know ifthey could go by the steamer. He seemed to have no idea ofgeography—had an impression that Baltimore was a Westerncity and was perpetually expecting to arrive at the Mississippi.He appeared never to have heard of any river in America butthe Mississippi and was unprepared to recognise the existenceof the Hudson, though obliged to confess at last that it wasfully equal to the Rhine. They had spent some pleasant hours inthe palace-cars; he was always ordering ice-cream from thecoloured man. He could never get used to that idea—that youcould get ice-cream in the cars. Of course you couldn't, norfans, nor candy, nor anything in the English cars! He found theheat quite overwhelming, and she had told him she indeed ex-pected it was the biggest he had ever experienced. He wasnow in England, hunting—"hunting round" Henrietta called it.These amusements were those of the American red men; wehad left that behind long ago, the pleasures of the chase. Itseemed to be generally believed in England that we wore toma-hawks and feathers; but such a costume was more in keepingwith English habits. Mr. Bantling would not have time to joinher in Italy, but when she should go to Paris again he expectedto come over. He wanted very much to see Versailles again; hewas very fond of the ancient regime. They didn't agree aboutthat, but that was what she liked Versailles for, that you couldsee the ancient regime had been swept away. There were nodukes and marquises there now; she remembered on the con-trary one day when there were five American families, walkingall round. Mr. Bantling was very anxious that she should takeup the subject of England again, and he thought she might geton better with it now; England had changed a good deal withintwo or three years. He was determined that if she went therehe should go to see his sister, Lady Pensil, and that this timethe invitation should come to her straight. The mystery aboutthat other one had never been explained.

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Caspar Goodwood came at last to Palazzo Roccanera; he hadwritten Isabel a note beforehand, to ask leave. This waspromptly granted; she would be at home at six o'clock that af-ternoon. She spent the day wondering what he was comingfor—what good he expected to get of it. He had presented him-self hitherto as a person destitute of the faculty of compromise,who would take what he had asked for or take nothing. Isabel'shospitality, however, raised no questions, and she found nogreat difficulty in appearing happy enough to deceive him. Itwas her conviction at least that she deceived him, made himsay to himself that he had been misinformed. But she also saw,so she believed, that he was not disappointed, as some othermen, she was sure, would have been; he had not come to Rometo look for an opportunity. She never found out what he hadcome for; he offered her no explanation; there could be nonebut the very simple one that he wanted to see her. In otherwords he had come for his amusement. Isabel followed up thisinduction with a good deal of eagerness, and was delighted tohave found a formula that would lay the ghost of thisgentleman's ancient grievance. If he had come to Rome for hisamusement this was exactly what she wanted; for if he caredfor amusement he had got over his heartache. If he had gotover his heartache everything was as it should be and her re-sponsibilities were at an end. It was true that he took his recre-ation a little stiffly, but he had never been loose and easy andshe had every reason to believe he was satisfied with what hesaw. Henrietta was not in his confidence, though he was inhers, and Isabel consequently received no side-light upon hisstate of mind. He was open to little conversation on generaltopics; it came back to her that she had said of him once, yearsbefore, "Mr. Goodwood speaks a good deal, but he doesn'ttalk." He spoke a good deal now, but he talked perhaps as littleas ever; considering, that is, how much there was in Rome totalk about. His arrival was not calculated to simplify her rela-tions with her husband, for if Mr. Osmond didn't like herfriends Mr. Goodwood had no claim upon his attention save ashaving been one of the first of them. There was nothing for herto say of him but that he was the very oldest; this rather mea-gre synthesis exhausted the facts. She had been obliged to in-troduce him to Gilbert; it was impossible she should not ask

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him to dinner, to her Thursday evenings, of which she hadgrown very weary, but to which her husband still held for thesake not so much of inviting people as of not inviting them.

To the Thursdays Mr. Goodwood came regularly, solemnly,rather early; he appeared to regard them with a good deal ofgravity. Isabel every now and then had a moment of anger;there was something so literal about him; she thought he mightknow that she didn't know what to do with him. But shecouldn't call him stupid; he was not that in the least; he wasonly extraordinarily honest. To be as honest as that made aman very different from most people; one had to be almostequally honest with HIM. She made this latter reflection at thevery time she was flattering herself she had persuaded himthat she was the most light-hearted of women. He never threwany doubt on this point, never asked her any personal ques-tions. He got on much better with Osmond than had seemedprobable. Osmond had a great dislike to being counted on; insuch a case be had an irresistible need of disappointing you. Itwas in virtue of this principle that he gave himself the enter-tainment of taking a fancy to a perpendicular Bostonian whomhe bad been depended upon to treat with coldness. He askedIsabel if Mr. Goodwood also had wanted to marry her, and ex-pressed surprise at her not having accepted him. It would havebeen an excellent thing, like living under some tall belfry whichwould strike all the hours and make a queer vibration in theupper air. He declared he liked to talk with the great Good-wood; it wasn't easy at first, you had to climb up an intermin-able steep staircase up to the top of the tower; but when yougot there you had a big view and felt a little fresh breeze. Os-mond, as we know, had delightful qualities, and he gave Cas-par Goodwood the benefit of them all. Isabel could see that Mr.Goodwood thought better of her husband than he had everwished to; he had given her the impression that morning inFlorence of being inaccessible to a good impression. Gilbertasked him repeatedly to dinner, and Mr. Goodwood smoked acigar with him afterwards and even desired to be shown hiscollections. Gilbert said to Isabel that he was very original; hewas as strong and of as good a style as an English port-manteau,—he had plenty of straps and buckles which wouldnever wear out, and a capital patent lock. Caspar Goodwood

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took to riding on the Campagna and devoted much time to thisexercise; it was therefore mainly in the evening that Isabel sawhim. She bethought herself of saying to him one day that if hewere willing he could render her a service. And then she addedsmiling:

"I don't know, however, what right I have to ask a service ofyou."

"You're the person in the world who has most right," heanswered. "I've given you assurances that I've never given anyone else."

The service was that he should go and see her cousin Ralph,who was ill at the Hotel de Paris, alone, and be as kind to himas possible. Mr. Goodwood had never seen him, but he wouldknow who the poor fellow was; if she was not mistaken Ralphhad once invited him to Gardencourt. Caspar remembered theinvitation perfectly, and, though he was not supposed to be aman of imagination, had enough to put himself in the place of apoor gentleman who lay dying at a Roman inn. He called at theHotel de Paris and, on being shown into the presence of themaster of Gardencourt, found Miss Stackpole sitting beside hissofa. A singular change had in fact occurred in this lady's rela-tions with Ralph Touchett. She had not been asked by Isabel togo and see him, but on hearing that he was too ill to come outhad immediately gone of her own motion. After this she hadpaid him a daily visit—always under the conviction that theywere great enemies. "Oh yes, we're intimate enemies," Ralphused to say; and he accused her freely—as freely as the hu-mour of it would allow —of coming to worry him to death. Inreality they became excellent friends, Henrietta much wonder-ing that she should never have liked him before. Ralph likedher exactly as much as he had always done; he had neverdoubted for a moment that she was an excellent fellow. Theytalked about everything and always differed; about everything,that is, but Isabel—a topic as to which Ralph always had a thinforefinger on his lips. Mr. Bantling on the other hand proved agreat resource; Ralph was capable of discussing Mr. Bantlingwith Henrietta for hours. Discussion was stimulated of courseby their inevitable difference of view—Ralph having amusedhimself with taking the ground that the genial ex-guardsmanwas a regular Machiavelli. Caspar Goodwood could contribute

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nothing to such a debate; but after he had been left alone withhis host he found there were various other matters they couldtake up. It must be admitted that the lady who had just goneout was not one of these; Caspar granted all Miss Stackpole'smerits in advance, but had no further remark to make abouther. Neither, after the first allusions, did the two men expatiateupon Mrs. Osmond—a theme in which Goodwood perceived asmany dangers as Ralph. He felt very sorry for that unclassablepersonage; he couldn't bear to see a pleasant man, so pleasantfor all his queerness, so beyond anything to be done. Therewas always something to be done, for Goodwood, and he did itin this case by repeating several times his visit to the Hotel deParis. It seemed to Isabel that she had been very clever; shehad artfully disposed of the superfluous Caspar. She had givenhim an occupation; she had converted him into a caretaker ofRalph. She had a plan of making him travel northward with hercousin as soon as the first mild weather should allow it. LordWarburton had brought Ralph to Rome and Mr. Goodwoodshould take him away. There seemed a happy symmetry in this,and she was now intensely eager that Ralph should depart. Shehad a constant fear he would die there before her eyes and ahorror of the occurrence of this event at an inn, by her door,which he had so rarely entered. Ralph must sink to his last restin his own dear house, in one of those deep, dim chambers ofGardencourt where the dark ivy would cluster round the edgesof the glimmering window. There seemed to Isabel in thesedays something sacred in Gardencourt; no chapter of the pastwas more perfectly irrecoverable. When she thought of themonths she had spent there the tears rose to her eyes. Sheflattered herself, as I say, upon her ingenuity, but she had needof all she could muster; for several events occurred whichseemed to confront and defy her. The Countess Gemini arrivedfrom Florence—arrived with her trunks, her dresses, her chat-ter, her falsehoods, her frivolity, the strange, the unholy legendof the number of her lovers. Edward Rosier, who had beenaway somewhere,—no one, not even Pansy, knew where,—re-appeared in Rome and began to write her long letters, whichshe never answered. Madame Merle returned from Naples andsaid to her with a strange smile: "What on earth did you dowith Lord Warburton?" As if it were any business of hers!

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Chapter 48One day, toward the end of February, Ralph Touchett made uphis mind to return to England. He had his own reasons for thisdecision, which he was not bound to communicate; but Henri-etta Stackpole, to whom he mentioned his intention, flatteredherself that she guessed them. She forbore to express them,however; she only said, after a moment, as she sat by his sofa:"I suppose you know you can't go alone?"

"I've no idea of doing that," Ralph answered. "I shall havepeople with me."

"What do you mean by 'people'? Servants whom you pay?""Ah," said Ralph jocosely, "after all, they're human beings.""Are there any women among them?" Miss Stackpole desired

to know."You speak as if I had a dozen! No, I confess I haven't a sou-

brette in my employment.""Well," said Henrietta calmly, "you can't go to England that

way. You must have a woman's care.""I've had so much of yours for the past fortnight that it will

last me a good while.""You've not had enough of it yet. I guess I'll go with you,"

said Henrietta."Go with me?" Ralph slowly raised himself from his sofa."Yes, I know you don't like me, but I'll go with you all the

same. It would be better for your health to lie down again."Ralph looked at her a little; then he slowly relapsed. "I like

you very much," he said in a moment.Miss Stackpole gave one of her infrequent laughs. "You

needn't think that by saying that you can buy me off. I'll gowith you, and what is more I'll take care of you."

"You're a very good woman," said Ralph."Wait till I get you safely home before you say that. It won't

be easy. But you had better go, all the same."

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Before she left him, Ralph said to her: "Do you really mean totake care of me?"

"Well, I mean to try.""I notify you then that I submit. Oh, I submit!" And it was

perhaps a sign of submission that a few minutes after she hadleft him alone he burst into a loud fit of laughter. It seemed tohim so inconsequent, such a conclusive proof of his having ab-dicated all functions and renounced all exercise, that he shouldstart on a journey across Europe under the supervision of MissStackpole. And the great oddity was that the prospect pleasedhim; he was gratefully, luxuriously passive. He felt even impa-tient to start; and indeed he had an immense longing to see hisown house again. The end of everything was at hand; it seemedto him he could stretch out his arm and touch the goal. But hewanted to die at home; it was the only wish he had left—to ex-tend himself in the large quiet room where he had last seen hisfather lie, and close his eyes upon the summer dawn.

That same day Caspar Goodwood came to see him, and he in-formed his visitor that Miss Stackpole had taken him up andwas to conduct him back to England. "Ah then," said Caspar,"I'm afraid I shall be a fifth wheel to the coach. Mrs. Osmondhas made me promise to go with you."

"Good heavens—it's the golden age! You're all too kind.""The kindness on my part is to her; it's hardly to you.""Granting that, SHE'S kind," smiled Ralph."To get people to go with you? Yes, that's a sort of kindness,"

Goodwood answered without lending himself to the joke. "Formyself, however," he added, "I'll go so far as to say that I wouldmuch rather travel with you and Miss Stackpole than with MissStackpole alone."

"And you'd rather stay here than do either," said Ralph."There's really no need of your coming. Henrietta's extraordin-arily efficient."

"I'm sure of that. But I've promised Mrs. Osmond.""You can easily get her to let you off.""She wouldn't let me off for the world. She wants me to look

after you, but that isn't the principal thing. The principal thingis that she wants me to leave Rome."

"Ah, you see too much in it," Ralph suggested.

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"I bore her," Goodwood went on; "she has nothing to say tome, so she invented that."

"Oh then, if it's a convenience to her I certainly will take youwith me. Though I don't see why it should be a convenience,"Ralph added in a moment.

"Well," said Caspar Goodwood simply, "she thinks I'm watch-ing her."

"Watching her?""Trying to make out if she's happy.""That's easy to make out," said Ralph. "She's the most visibly

happy woman I know.""Exactly so; I'm satisfied," Goodwood answered dryly. For all

his dryness, however, he had more to say. "I've been watchingher; I was an old friend and it seemed to me I had the right.She pretends to be happy; that was what she undertook to be;and I thought I should like to see for myself what it amounts to.I've seen," he continued with a harsh ring in his voice, "and Idon't want to see any more. I'm now quite ready to go."

"Do you know it strikes me as about time you should?" Ralphrejoined. And this was the only conversation these gentlemenhad about Isabel Osmond.

Henrietta made her preparations for departure, and amongthem she found it proper to say a few words to the CountessGemini, who returned at Miss Stackpole's pension the visitwhich this lady had paid her in Florence.

"You were very wrong about Lord Warburton," she remarkedto the Countess. "I think it right you should know that."

"About his making love to Isabel? My poor lady, he was ather house three times a day. He has left traces of his passage!"the Countess cried.

"He wished to marry your niece; that's why he came to thehouse."

The Countess stared, and then with an inconsiderate laugh:"Is that the story that Isabel tells? It isn't bad, as such thingsgo. If he wishes to marry my niece, pray why doesn't he do it?Perhaps he has gone to buy the wedding-ring and will comeback with it next month, after I'm gone."

"No, he'll not come back. Miss Osmond doesn't wish to marryhim."

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"She's very accommodating! I knew she was fond of Isabel,but I didn't know she carried it so far."

"I don't understand you," said Henrietta coldly, and reflect-ing that the Countess was unpleasantly perverse. "I really muststick to my point—that Isabel never encouraged the attentionsof Lord Warburton."

"My dear friend, what do you and I know about it? All weknow is that my brother's capable of everything."

"I don't know what your brother's capable of," said Henriettawith dignity.

"It's not her encouraging Warburton that I complain of; it'sher sending him away. I want particularly to see him. Do yousuppose she thought I would make him faithless?" the Count-ess continued with audacious insistence. "However, she's onlykeeping him, one can feel that. The house is full of him there;he's quite in the air. Oh yes, he has left traces; I'm sure I shallsee him yet."

"Well," said Henrietta after a little, with one of those inspira-tions which had made the fortune of her letters to the Inter-viewer, "perhaps he'll be more successful with you than withIsabel!"

When she told her friend of the offer she had made RalphIsabel replied that she could have done nothing that wouldhave pleased her more. It had always been her faith that atbottom Ralph and this young woman were made to understandeach other. "I don't care whether he understands me or not,"Henrietta declared. "The great thing is that he shouldn't die inthe cars."

"He won't do that," Isabel said, shaking her head with an ex-tension of faith.

"He won't if I can help it. I see you want us all to go. I don'tknow what you want to do."

"I want to be alone," said Isabel."You won't be that so long as you've so much company at

home.""Ah, they're part of the comedy. You others are spectators.""Do you call it a comedy, Isabel Archer?" Henrietta rather

grimly asked."The tragedy then if you like. You're all looking at me; it

makes me uncomfortable."

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Henrietta engaged in this act for a while. "You're like thestricken deer, seeking the innermost shade. Oh, you do give mesuch a sense of helplessness!" she broke out.

"I'm not at all helpless. There are many things I mean to do.""It's not you I'm speaking of; it's myself. It's too much, having

come on purpose, to leave you just as I find you.""You don't do that; you leave me much refreshed," Isabel

said."Very mild refreshment—sour lemonade! I want you to prom-

ise me something.""I can't do that. I shall never make another promise. I made

such a solemn one four years ago, and I've succeeded so ill inkeeping it."

"You've had no encouragement. In this case I should give youthe greatest. Leave your husband before the worst comes;that's what I want you to promise."

"The worst? What do you call the worst?""Before your character gets spoiled.""Do you mean my disposition? It won't get spoiled," Isabel

answered, smiling. "I'm taking very good care of it. I'm ex-tremely struck," she added, turning away, "with the off-handway in which you speak of a woman's leaving her husband. It'seasy to see you've never had one!"

"Well," said Henrietta as if she were beginning an argument,"nothing is more common in our Western cities, and it's tothem, after all, that we must look in the future." Her argument,however, does not concern this history, which has too manyother threads to unwind. She announced to Ralph Touchettthat she was ready to leave Rome by any train he might desig-nate, and Ralph immediately pulled himself together for depar-ture. Isabel went to see him at the last, and he made the sameremark that Henrietta had made. It struck him that Isabel wasuncommonly glad to get rid of them all.

For all answer to this she gently laid her hand on his, andsaid in a low tone, with a quick smile: "My dear Ralph—!"

It was answer enough, and he was quite contented. But hewent on in the same way, jocosely, ingenuously: "I've seen lessof you than I might, but it's better than nothing. And then I'veheard a great deal about you."

"I don't know from whom, leading the life you've done."

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"From the voices of the air! Oh, from no one else; I never letother people speak of you. They always say you're 'charming,'and that's so flat."

"I might have seen more of you certainly," Isabel said. "Butwhen one's married one has so much occupation."

"Fortunately I'm not married. When you come to see me inEngland I shall be able to entertain you with all the freedom ofa bachelor." He continued to talk as if they should certainlymeet again, and succeeded in making the assumption appearalmost just. He made no allusion to his term being near, to theprobability that he should not outlast the summer. If he pre-ferred it so, Isabel was willing enough; the reality was suffi-ciently distinct without their erecting finger-posts in conversa-tion. That had been well enough for the earlier time, thoughabout this, as about his other affairs, Ralph had never beenegotistic. Isabel spoke of his journey, of the stages into whichhe should divide it, of the precautions he should take."Henrietta's my greatest precaution," he went on. "The con-science of that woman's sublime."

"Certainly she'll be very conscientious.""Will be? She has been! It's only because she thinks it's her

duty that she goes with me. There's a conception of duty foryou."

"Yes, it's a generous one," said Isabel, "and it makes medeeply ashamed. I ought to go with you, you know."

"Your husband wouldn't like that.""No, he wouldn't like it. But I might go, all the same.""I'm startled by the boldness of your imagination. Fancy my

being a cause of disagreement between a lady and herhusband!"

"That's why I don't go," said Isabel simply—yet not verylucidly.

Ralph understood well enough, however. "I should think so,with all those occupations you speak of."

"It isn't that. I'm afraid," said Isabel. After a pause she re-peated, as if to make herself, rather than him, hear the words:"I'm afraid."

Ralph could hardly tell what her tone meant; it was sostrangely deliberate—apparently so void of emotion. Did shewish to do public penance for a fault of which she had not been

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convicted? or were her words simply an attempt at enlightenedself-analysis? However this might be, Ralph could not resist soeasy an opportunity. "Afraid of your husband?"

"Afraid of myself!" she said, getting up. She stood there amoment and then added: "If I were afraid of my husband thatwould be simply my duty. That's what women are expected tobe."

"Ah yes," laughed Ralph; "but to make up for it there's al-ways some man awfully afraid of some woman!"

She gave no heed to this pleasantry, but suddenly took a dif-ferent turn. "With Henrietta at the head of your little band,"she exclaimed abruptly, "there will be nothing left for Mr.Goodwood!"

"Ah, my dear Isabel," Ralph answered, "he's used to that.There is nothing left for Mr. Goodwood."

She coloured and then observed, quickly, that she must leavehim. They stood together a moment; both her hands were inboth of his. "You've been my best friend," she said.

"It was for you that I wanted—that I wanted to live. But I'mof no use to you."

Then it came over her more poignantly that she should notsee him again. She could not accept that; she could not partwith him that way. "If you should send for me I'd come," shesaid at last.

"Your husband won't consent to that.""Oh yes, I can arrange it.""I shall keep that for my last pleasure!" said Ralph.In answer to which she simply kissed him. It was a Thursday,

and that evening Caspar Goodwood came to Palazzo Roc-canera. He was among the first to arrive, and he spent sometime in conversation with Gilbert Osmond, who almost alwayswas present when his wife received. They sat down together,and Osmond, talkative, communicative, expansive, seemed pos-sessed with a kind of intellectual gaiety. He leaned back withhis legs crossed, lounging and chatting, while Goodwood, morerestless, but not at all lively, shifted his position, played withhis hat, made the little sofa creak beneath him. Osmond's facewore a sharp, aggressive smile; he was as a man whose per-ceptions have been quickened by good news. He remarked toGoodwood that he was sorry they were to lose him; he himself

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should particularly miss him. He saw so few intelligentmen—they were surprisingly scarce in Rome. He must be sureto come back; there was something very refreshing, to an in-veterate Italian like himself, in talking with a genuine outsider.

"I'm very fond of Rome, you know," Osmond said; "butthere's nothing I like better than to meet people who haven'tthat superstition. The modern world's after all very fine. Nowyou're thoroughly modern and yet are not at all common. Somany of the moderns we see are such very poor stuff. If they'rethe children of the future we're willing to die young. Of coursethe ancients too are often very tiresome. My wife and I likeeverything that's really new—not the mere pretence of it.There's nothing new, unfortunately, in ignorance and stupidity.We see plenty of that in forms that offer themselves as a revel-ation of progress, of light. A revelation of vulgarity! There's acertain kind of vulgarity which I believe is really new; I don'tthink there ever was anything like it before. Indeed I don't findvulgarity, at all, before the present century. You see a faintmenace of it here and there in the last, but to-day the air hasgrown so dense that delicate things are literally not recog-nised. Now, we've liked you—!" With which he hesitated a mo-ment, laying his hand gently on Goodwood's knee and smilingwith a mixture of assurance and embarrassment. "I'm going tosay something extremely offensive and patronising, but youmust let me have the satisfaction of it. We've liked you be-cause—because you've reconciled us a little to the future. Ifthere are to be a certain number of people like you—a la bonneheure! I'm talking for my wife as well as for myself, you see.She speaks for me, my wife; why shouldn't I speak for her?We're as united, you know, as the candlestick and the snuffers.Am I assuming too much when I say that I think I've under-stood from you that your occupations have been—a— commer-cial? There's a danger in that, you know; but it's the way youhave escaped that strikes us. Excuse me if my little complimentseems in execrable taste; fortunately my wife doesn't hear me.What I mean is that you might have been—a—what I was men-tioning just now. The whole American world was in a conspir-acy to make you so. But you resisted, you've something aboutyou that saved you. And yet you're so modern, so modern; the

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most modern man we know! We shall always be delighted tosee you again."

I have said that Osmond was in good humour, and these re-marks will give ample evidence of the fact. They were infinitelymore personal than he usually cared to be, and if Caspar Good-wood had attended to them more closely he might havethought that the defence of delicacy was in rather odd hands.We may believe, however, that Osmond knew very well whathe was about, and that if he chose to use the tone of patronagewith a grossness not in his habits he had an excellent reasonfor the escapade. Goodwood had only a vague sense that hewas laying it on somehow; he scarcely knew where the mixturewas applied. Indeed he scarcely knew what Osmond was talk-ing about; he wanted to be alone with Isabel, and that ideaspoke louder to him than her husband's perfectly-pitchedvoice. He watched her talking with other people and wonderedwhen she would be at liberty and whether he might ask her togo into one of the other rooms. His humour was not, likeOsmond's, of the best; there was an element of dull rage in hisconsciousness of things. Up to this time he had not disliked Os-mond personally; he had only thought him very well-informedand obliging and more than he had supposed like the personwhom Isabel Archer would naturally marry. His host had wonin the open field a great advantage over him, and Goodwoodhad too strong a sense of fair play to have been moved to un-derrate him on that account. He had not tried positively tothink well of him; this was a flight of sentimental benevolenceof which, even in the days when he came nearest to reconcilinghimself to what had happened, Goodwood was quite incapable.He accepted him as rather a brilliant personage of the ama-teurish kind, afflicted with a redundancy of leisure which itamused him to work off in little refinements of conversation.But he only half trusted him; he could never make out why thedeuce Osmond should lavish refinements of any sort upon HIM.It made him suspect that he found some private entertainmentin it, and it ministered to a general impression that his tri-umphant rival had in his composition a streak of perversity. Heknew indeed that Osmond could have no reason to wish himevil; he had nothing to fear from him. He had carried off a su-preme advantage and could afford to be kind to a man who had

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lost everything. It was true that Goodwood had at times grimlywished he were dead and would have liked to kill him; but Os-mond had no means of knowing this, for practice had made theyounger man perfect in the art of appearing inaccessible to-dayto any violent emotion. He cultivated this art in order to de-ceive himself, but it was others that he deceived first. He cul-tivated it, moreover, with very limited success; of which therecould be no better proof than the deep, dumb irritation thatreigned in his soul when he heard Osmond speak of his wife'sfeelings as if he were commissioned to answer for them.

That was all he had had an ear for in what his host said tohim this evening; he had been conscious that Osmond mademore of a point even than usual of referring to the conjugalharmony prevailing at Palazzo Roccanera. He had been morecareful than ever to speak as if he and his wife had all things insweet community and it were as natural to each of them to say"we" as to say "I". In all this there was an air of intention thathad puzzled and angered our poor Bostonian, who could onlyreflect for his comfort that Mrs. Osmond's relations with herhusband were none of his business. He had no proof whateverthat her husband misrepresented her, and if he judged her bythe surface of things was bound to believe that she liked herlife. She had never given him the faintest sign of discontent.Miss Stackpole had told him that she had lost her illusions, butwriting for the papers had made Miss Stackpole sensational.She was too fond of early news. Moreover, since her arrival inRome she had been much on her guard; she had pretty wellceased to flash her lantern at him. This indeed, it may be saidfor her, would have been quite against her conscience. She hadnow seen the reality of Isabel's situation, and it had inspiredher with a just reserve. Whatever could be done to improve itthe most useful form of assistance would not be to inflame herformer lovers with a sense of her wrongs. Miss Stackpole con-tinued to take a deep interest in the state of Mr. Goodwood'sfeelings, but she showed it at present only by sending himchoice extracts, humorous and other, from the American journ-als, of which she received several by every post and which shealways perused with a pair of scissors in her hand. The articlesshe cut out she placed in an envelope addressed to Mr. Good-wood, which she left with her own hand at his hotel. He never

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asked her a question about Isabel: hadn't he come five thou-sand miles to see for himself? He was thus not in the least au-thorised to think Mrs. Osmond unhappy; but the very absenceof authorisation operated as an irritant, ministered to theharsh- ness with which, in spite of his theory that he hadceased to care, he now recognised that, so far as she was con-cerned, the future had nothing more for him. He had not eventhe satisfaction of knowing the truth; apparently he could noteven be trusted to respect her if she WERE unhappy. He washopeless, helpless, useless. To this last character she hadcalled his attention by her ingenious plan for making him leaveRome. He had no objection whatever to doing what he couldfor her cousin, but it made him grind his teeth to think that ofall the services she might have asked of him this was the oneshe had been eager to select. There had been no danger of herchoosing one that would have kept him in Rome.

To-night what he was chiefly thinking of was that he was toleave her to-morrow and that he had gained nothing by comingbut the knowledge that he was as little wanted as ever. Aboutherself he had gained no knowledge; she was imperturbable,inscrutable, impenetrable. He felt the old bitterness, which hehad tried so hard to swallow, rise again in his throat, and heknew there are disappointments that last as long as life. Os-mond went on talking; Goodwood was vaguely aware that hewas touching again upon his perfect intimacy with his wife. Itseemed to him for a moment that the man had a kind of de-monic imagination; it was impossible that without malice heshould have selected so unusual a topic. But what did it matter,after all, whether he were demonic or not, and whether sheloved him or hated him? She might hate him to the deathwithout one's gaining a straw one's self. "You travel, by the by,with Ralph Touchett," Osmond said. "I suppose that meansyou'll move slowly?"

"I don't know. I shall do just as he likes.""You're very accommodating. We're immensely obliged to

you; you must really let me say it. My wife has probably ex-pressed to you what we feel. Touchett has been on our mindsall winter; it has looked more than once as if he would neverleave Rome. He ought never to have come; it's worse than animprudence for people in that state to travel; it's a kind of

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indelicacy. I wouldn't for the world be under such an obligationto Touchett as he has been to—to my wife and me. Otherpeople inevitably have to look after him, and every one isn't sogenerous as you."

"I've nothing else to do," Caspar said dryly.Osmond looked at him a moment askance. "You ought to

marry, and then you'd have plenty to do! It's true that in thatcase you wouldn't be quite so available for deeds of mercy."

"Do you find that as a married man you're so much occu-pied?" the young man mechanically asked.

"Ah, you see, being married's in itself an occupation. It isn'talways active; it's often passive; but that takes even more at-tention. Then my wife and I do so many things together. Weread, we study, we make music, we walk, we drive—we talkeven, as when we first knew each other. I delight, to this hour,in my wife's conversation. If you're ever bored take my adviceand get married. Your wife indeed may bore you, in that case;but you'll never bore yourself. You'll always have something tosay to yourself—always have a subject of reflection."

"I'm not bored," said Goodwood. "I've plenty to think aboutand to say to myself."

"More than to say to others!" Osmond exclaimed with a lightlaugh. "Where shall you go next? I mean after you've consignedTouchett to his natural caretakers—I believe his mother's atlast coming back to look after him. That little lady's superb;she neglects her duties with a finish—! Perhaps you'll spendthe summer in England?"

"I don't know. I've no plans.""Happy man! That's a little bleak, but it's very free.""Oh yes, I'm very free.""Free to come back to Rome I hope," said Osmond as he saw

a group of new visitors enter the room. "Remember that whenyou do come we count on you!"

Goodwood had meant to go away early, but the eveningelapsed without his having a chance to speak to Isabel other-wise than as one of several associated interlocutors. There wassomething perverse in the inveteracy with which she avoidedhim; his unquenchable rancour discovered an intention wherethere was certainly no appearance of one. There was abso-lutely no appearance of one. She met his eyes with her clear

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hospitable smile, which seemed almost to ask that he wouldcome and help her to entertain some of her visitors. To suchsuggestions, however, he opposed but a stiff impatience. Hewandered about and waited; he talked to the few people heknew, who found him for the first time rather self-contradict-ory. This was indeed rare with Caspar Goodwood, though heoften contradicted others. There was often music at PalazzoRoccanera, and it was usually very good. Under cover of themusic he managed to contain himself; but toward the end,when he saw the people beginning to go, he drew near to Isa-bel and asked her in a low tone if he might not speak to her inone of the other rooms, which he had just assured himself wasempty. She smiled as if she wished to oblige him but found herself absolutely prevented. "I'm afraid it's impossible. People aresaying good-night, and I must be where they can see me."

"I shall wait till they are all gone then."She hesitated a moment. "Ah, that will be delightful!" she

exclaimed.And he waited, though it took a long time yet. There were

several people, at the end, who seemed tethered to the carpet.The Countess Gemini, who was never herself till midnight, asshe said, displayed no consciousness that the entertainmentwas over; she had still a little circle of gentlemen in front of thefire, who every now and then broke into a united laugh. Os-mond had disappeared—he never bade good-bye to people; andas the Countess was extending her range, according to hercustom at this period of the evening, Isabel had sent Pansy tobed. Isabel sat a little apart; she too appeared to wish hersister-in-law would sound a lower note and let the last loiterersdepart in peace.

"May I not say a word to you now?" Goodwood presentlyasked her. She got up immediately, smiling. "Certainly, we'll gosomewhere else if you like." They went together, leaving theCountess with her little circle, and for a moment after they hadcrossed the threshold neither of them spoke. Isabel would notsit down; she stood in the middle of the room slowly fanningherself; she had for him the same familiar grace. She seemedto wait for him to speak. Now that he was alone with her allthe passion he had never stifled surged into his senses; ithummed in his eyes and made things swim round him. The

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bright, empty room grew dim and blurred, and through theheaving veil he felt her hover before him with gleaming eyesand parted lips. If he had seen more distinctly he would haveperceived her smile was fixed and a trifle forced—that she wasfrightened at what she saw in his own face. "I suppose youwish to bid me goodbye?" she said.

"Yes—but I don't like it. I don't want to leave Rome," heanswered with almost plaintive honesty.

"I can well imagine. It's wonderfully good of you. I can't tellyou how kind I think you."

For a moment more he said nothing. "With a few words likethat you make me go."

"You must come back some day," she brightly returned."Some day? You mean as long a time hence as possible.""Oh no; I don't mean all that.""What do you mean? I don't understand! But I said I'd go,

and I'll go," Goodwood added."Come back whenever you like," said Isabel with attempted

lightness."I don't care a straw for your cousin!" Caspar broke out."Is that what you wished to tell me?""No, no; I didn't want to tell you anything; I wanted to ask

you—" he paused a moment, and then—"what have you reallymade of your life?" he said, in a low, quick tone. He pausedagain, as if for an answer; but she said nothing, and he wenton: "I can't understand, I can't penetrate you! What am I to be-lieve— what do you want me to think?" Still she said nothing;she only stood looking at him, now quite without pretending toease. "I'm told you're unhappy, and if you are I should like toknow it. That would be something for me. But you yourself sayyou're happy, and you're somehow so still, so smooth, so hard.You're completely changed. You conceal everything; I haven'treally come near you."

"You come very near," Isabel said gently, but in a tone ofwarning.

"And yet I don't touch you! I want to know the truth. Haveyou done well?"

"You ask a great deal.""Yes—I've always asked a great deal. Of course you won't tell

me. I shall never know if you can help it. And then it's none of

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my business." He had spoken with a visible effort to controlhimself, to give a considerate form to an inconsiderate state ofmind. But the sense that it was his last chance, that he lovedher and had lost her, that she would think him a fool whateverhe should say, suddenly gave him a lash and added a deep vi-bration to his low voice. "You're perfectly inscrutable, andthat's what makes me think you've something to hide. I tell youI don't care a straw for your cousin, but I don't mean that Idon't like him. I mean that it isn't because I like him that I goaway with him. I'd go if he were an idiot and you should haveasked me. If you should ask me I'd go to Siberia tomorrow.Why do you want me to leave the place? You must have somereason for that; if you were as contented as you pretend youare you wouldn't care. I'd rather know the truth about you,even if it's damnable, than have come here for nothing. Thatisn't what I came for. I thought I shouldn't care. I came be-cause I wanted to assure myself that I needn't think of you anymore. I haven't thought of anything else, and you're quite rightto wish me to go away. But if I must go, there's no harm in myletting myself out for a single moment, is there? If you're reallyhurt—if HE hurts you—nothing I say will hurt you. When I tellyou I love you it's simply what I came for. I thought it was forsomething else; but it was for that. I shouldn't say it if I didn'tbelieve I should never see you again. It's the last time—let mepluck a single flower! I've no right to say that, I know; andyou've no right to listen. But you don't listen; you never listen,you're always thinking of something else. After this I must go,of course; so I shall at least have a reason. Your asking me isno reason, not a real one. I can't judge by your husband," hewent on irrelevantly, almost incoherently; "I don't understandhim; he tells me you adore each other. Why does he tell methat? What business is it of mine? When I say that to you, youlook strange. But you always look strange. Yes, you'vesomething to hide. It's none of my business —very true. But Ilove you," said Caspar Goodwood.

As he said, she looked strange. She turned her eyes to thedoor by which they had entered and raised her fan as if inwarning.

"You've behaved so well; don't spoil it," she uttered softly.

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"No one hears me. It's wonderful what you tried to put me offwith. I love you as I've never loved you."

"I know it. I knew it as soon as you consented to go.""You can't help it—of course not. You would if you could, but

you can't, unfortunately. Unfortunately for me, I mean. I asknothing —nothing, that is, I shouldn't. But I do ask one sole sat-isfaction:—that you tell me—that you tell me—!"

"That I tell you what?""Whether I may pity you.""Should you like that?" Isabel asked, trying to smile again."To pity you? Most assuredly! That at least would be doing

something. I'd give my life to it."She raised her fan to her face, which it covered all except

her eyes. They rested a moment on his. "Don't give your life toit; but give a thought to it every now and then." And with thatshe went back to the Countess Gemini.

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Chapter 49Madame Merle had not made her appearance at Palazzo Roc-canera on the evening of that Thursday of which I have nar-rated some of the incidents, and Isabel, though she observedher absence, was not surprised by it. Things had passedbetween them which added no stimulus to sociability, and toappreciate which we must glance a little backward. It has beenmentioned that Madame Merle returned from Naples shortlyafter Lord Warburton had left Rome, and that on her firstmeeting with Isabel (whom, to do her justice, she came imme-diately to see) her first utterance had been an enquiry as to thewhereabouts of this nobleman, for whom she appeared to holdher dear friend accountable.

"Please don't talk of him," said Isabel for answer; "we'veheard so much of him of late."

Madame Merle bent her head on one side a little, protest-ingly, and smiled at the left corner of her mouth. "You'veheard, yes. But you must remember that I've not, in Naples. Ihoped to find him here and to be able to congratulate Pansy."

"You may congratulate Pansy still; but not on marrying LordWarburton."

"How you say that! Don't you know I had set my heart on it?"Madame Merle asked with a great deal of spirit, but still withthe intonation of good-humour.

Isabel was discomposed, but she was determined to be good-humoured too. "You shouldn't have gone to Naples then. Youshould have stayed here to watch the affair."

"I had too much confidence in you. But do you think it's toolate?"

"You had better ask Pansy," said Isabel."I shall ask her what you've said to her."These words seemed to justify the impulse of self-defence

aroused on Isabel's part by her perceiving that her visitor's

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attitude was a critical one. Madame Merle, as we know, hadbeen very discreet hitherto; she had never criticised; she hadbeen markedly afraid of intermeddling. But apparently she hadonly reserved herself for this occasion, since she now had adangerous quickness in her eye and an air of irritation whicheven her admirable ease was not able to transmute. She hadsuffered a disappointment which excited Isabel's surprise—ourheroine having no knowledge of her zealous interest in Pansy'smarriage; and she betrayed it in a manner which quickenedMrs. Osmond's alarm. More clearly than ever before Isabelheard a cold, mocking voice proceed from she knew not where,in the dim void that surrounded her, and declare that thisbright, strong, definite, worldly woman, this incarnation of thepractical, the personal, the immediate, was a powerful agent inher destiny. She was nearer to her than Isabel had yet dis-covered, and her nearness was not the charming accident shehad so long supposed. The sense of accident indeed had diedwithin her that day when she happened to be struck with themanner in which the wonderful lady and her own husband sattogether in private. No definite suspicion had as yet taken itsplace; but it was enough to make her view this friend with adifferent eye, to have been led to reflect that there was moreintention in her past behaviour than she had allowed for at thetime. Ah yes, there had been intention, there had been inten-tion, Isabel said to herself; and she seemed to wake from along pernicious dream. What was it that brought home to herthat Madame Merle's intention had not been good? Nothingbut the mistrust which had lately taken body and which mar-ried itself now to the fruitful wonder produced by her visitor'schallenge on behalf of poor Pansy. There was something in thischallenge which had at the very outset excited an answeringdefiance; a nameless vitality which she could see to have beenabsent from her friend's professions of delicacy and caution.Madame Merle had been unwilling to interfere, certainly, butonly so long as there was nothing to interfere with. It will per-haps seem to the reader that Isabel went fast in casting doubt,on mere suspicion, on a sincerity proved by several years ofgood offices. She moved quickly indeed, and with reason, for astrange truth was filtering into her soul. Madame Merle's in-terest was identical with Osmond's: that was enough. "I think

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Pansy will tell you nothing that will make you more angry," shesaid in answer to her companion's last remark.

"I'm not in the least angry. I've only a great desire to retrievethe situation. Do you consider that Warburton has left us forever?"

"I can't tell you; I don't understand you. It's all over; pleaselet it rest. Osmond has talked to me a great deal about it, andI've nothing more to say or to hear. I've no doubt," Isabel ad-ded, "that he'll be very happy to discuss the subject with you."

"I know what he thinks; he came to see me last evening.""As soon as you had arrived? Then you know all about it and

you needn't apply to me for information.""It isn't information I want. At bottom it's sympathy. I had set

my heart on that marriage; the idea did what so few thingsdo— it satisfied the imagination."

"Your imagination, yes. But not that of the personsconcerned."

"You mean by that of course that I'm not concerned. Ofcourse not directly. But when one's such an old friend one can'thelp having something at stake. You forget how long I'veknown Pansy. You mean, of course," Madame Merle added,"that YOU are one of the persons concerned."

"No; that's the last thing I mean. I'm very weary of it all."Madame Merle hesitated a little. "Ah yes, your work's done.""Take care what you say," said Isabel very gravely."Oh, I take care; never perhaps more than when it appears

least. Your husband judges you severely."Isabel made for a moment no answer to this; she felt choked

with bitterness. It was not the insolence of Madame Merle's in-forming her that Osmond had been taking her into his confid-ence as against his wife that struck her most; for she was notquick to believe that this was meant for insolence. MadameMerle was very rarely insolent, and only when it was exactlyright. It was not right now, or at least it was not right yet.What touched Isabel like a drop of corrosive acid upon an openwound was the knowledge that Osmond dishonoured her in hiswords as well as in his thoughts. "Should you like to know howI judge HIM?" she asked at last.

"No, because you'd never tell me. And it would be painful forme to know."

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There was a pause, and for the first time since she hadknown her Isabel thought Madame Merle disagreeable. Shewished she would leave her. "Remember how attractive Pansyis, and don't despair," she said abruptly, with a desire that thisshould close their interview.

But Madame Merle's expansive presence underwent no con-traction. She only gathered her mantle about her and, with themovement, scattered upon the air a faint, agreeable fragrance."I don't despair; I feel encouraged. And I didn't come to scoldyou; I came if possible to learn the truth. I know you'll tell it if Iask you. It's an immense blessing with you that one can countupon that. No, you won't believe what a comfort I take in it."

"What truth do you speak of?" Isabel asked, wondering."Just this: whether Lord Warburton changed his mind quite

of his own movement or because you recommended it. Toplease himself I mean, or to please you. Think of the confid-ence I must still have in you, in spite of having lost a little ofit," Madame Merle continued with a smile, "to ask such a ques-tion as that!" She sat looking at her friend, to judge the effectof her words, and then went on: "Now don't be heroic, don't beunreasonable, don't take offence. It seems to me I do you anhonour in speaking so. I don't know another woman to whom Iwould do it. I haven't the least idea that any other womanwould tell me the truth. And don't you see how well it is thatyour husband should know it? It's true that he doesn't appearto have had any tact whatever in trying to extract it; he has in-dulged in gratuitous suppositions. But that doesn't alter thefact that it would make a difference in his view of hisdaughter's prospects to know distinctly what really occurred. IfLord Warburton simply got tired of the poor child, that's onething, and it's a pity. If he gave her up to please you it's anoth-er. That's a pity too, but in a different way. Then, in the lattercase, you'd perhaps resign yourself to not being pleased—tosimply seeing your step-daughter married. Let him off—let ushave him!"

Madame Merle had proceeded very deliberately, watchingher companion and apparently thinking she could proceedsafely. As she went on Isabel grew pale; she clasped her handsmore tightly in her lap. It was not that her visitor had at lastthought it the right time to be insolent; for this was not what

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was most apparent. It was a worse horror than that. "Who areyou—what are you?" Isabel murmured. "What have you to dowith my husband?" It was strange that for the moment shedrew as near to him as if she had loved him.

"Ah then, you take it heroically! I'm very sorry. Don't think,however, that I shall do so."

"What have you to do with me?" Isabel went on.Madame Merle slowly got up, stroking her muff, but not re-

moving her eyes from Isabel's face. "Everything!" sheanswered.

Isabel sat there looking up at her, without rising; her facewas almost a prayer to be enlightened. But the light of thiswoman's eyes seemed only a darkness. "Oh misery!" she mur-mured at last; and she fell back, covering her face with herhands. It had come over her like a high-surging wave that Mrs.Touchett was right. Madame Merle had married her. Beforeshe uncovered her face again that lady had left the room.

Isabel took a drive alone that afternoon; she wished to be faraway, under the sky, where she could descend from her car-riage and tread upon the daisies. She had long before thistaken old Rome into her confidence, for in a world of ruins theruin of her happiness seemed a less unnatural catastrophe. Sherested her weariness upon things that had crumbled for cen-turies and yet still were upright; she dropped her secret sad-ness into the silence of lonely places, where its very modernquality detached itself and grew objective, so that as she sat ina sun-warmed angle on a winter's day, or stood in a mouldychurch to which no one came, she could almost smile at it andthink of its smallness. Small it was, in the large Roman record,and her haunting sense of the continuity of the human lot eas-ily carried her from the less to the greater. She had becomedeeply, tenderly acquainted with Rome; it interfused and mod-erated her passion. But she had grown to think of it chiefly asthe place where people had suffered. This was what came toher in the starved churches, where the marble columns, trans-ferred from pagan ruins, seemed to offer her a companionshipin endurance and the musty incense to be a compound of long-unanswered prayers. There was no gentler nor less consistentheretic than Isabel; the firmest of worshippers, gazing at darkaltar-pictures or clustered candles, could not have felt more

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intimately the suggestiveness of these objects nor have beenmore liable at such moments to a spiritual visitation. Pansy, aswe know, was almost always her companion, and of late theCountess Gemini, balancing a pink parasol, had lent brilliancyto their equipage; but she still occasionally found herself alonewhen it suited her mood and where it suited the place. On suchoccasions she had several resorts; the most accessible of whichperhaps was a seat on the low parapet which edges the widegrassy space before the high, cold front of Saint John Lateran,whence you look across the Campagna at the far-trailing out-line of the Alban Mount and at that mighty plain, between,which is still so full of all that has passed from it. After the de-parture of her cousin and his companions she roamed morethan usual; she carried her sombre spirit from one familiarshrine to the other. Even when Pansy and the Countess werewith her she felt the touch of a vanished world. The carriage,leaving the walls of Rome behind, rolled through narrow laneswhere the wild honeysuckle had begun to tangle itself in thehedges, or waited for her in quiet places where the fields laynear, while she strolled further and further over the flower-freckled turf, or sat on a stone that had once had a use andgazed through the veil of her personal sadness at the splendidsadness of the scene—at the dense, warm light, the far grada-tions and soft confusions of colour, the motionless shepherds inlonely attitudes, the hills where the cloud-shadows had thelightness of a blush.

On the afternoon I began with speaking of, she had taken aresolution not to think of Madame Merle; but the resolutionproved vain, and this lady's image hovered constantly beforeher. She asked herself, with an almost childlike horror of thesupposition, whether to this intimate friend of several years thegreat historical epithet of wicked were to be applied. She knewthe idea only by the Bible and other literary works; to the bestof her belief she had had no personal acquaintance withwickedness. She had desired a large acquaintance with humanlife, and in spite of her having flattered herself that she cultiv-ated it with some success this elementary privilege had beendenied her. Perhaps it was not wicked—in the historicsense—to be even deeply false; for that was what MadameMerle had been—deeply, deeply, deeply. Isabel's Aunt Lydia

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had made this discovery long before, and had mentioned it toher niece; but Isabel had flattered herself at this time that shehad a much richer view of things, especially of the spontaneityof her own career and the nobleness of her own interpreta-tions, than poor stiffly-reasoning Mrs. Touchett. MadameMerle had done what she wanted; she had brought about theunion of her two friends; a reflection which could not fail tomake it a matter of wonder that she should so much have de-sired such an event. There were people who had the match-making passion, like the votaries of art for art; but MadameMerle, great artist as she was, was scarcely one of these. Shethought too ill of marriage, too ill even of life; she had desiredthat particular marriage but had not desired others. She hadtherefore had a conception of gain, and Isabel asked herselfwhere she had found her profit. It took her naturally a longtime to discover, and even then her discovery was imperfect. Itcame back to her that Madame Merle, though she had seemedto like her from their first meeting at Gardencourt, had beendoubly affectionate after Mr. Touchett's death and after learn-ing that her young friend had been subject to the good oldman's charity. She had found her profit not in the gross deviceof borrowing money, but in the more refined idea of introdu-cing one of her intimates to the young woman's fresh and in-genuous fortune. She had naturally chosen her closest intim-ate, and it was already vivid enough to Isabel that Gilbert occu-pied this position. She found herself confronted in this mannerwith the conviction that the man in the world whom she hadsupposed to be the least sordid had married her, like a vulgaradventurer, for her money. Strange to say, it had never beforeoccurred to her; if she had thought a good deal of harm of Os-mond she had not done him this particular injury. This was theworst she could think of, and she had been saying to herselfthat the worst was still to come. A man might marry a womanfor her money perfectly well; the thing was often done. But atleast he should let her know. She wondered whether, since hehad wanted her money, her money would now satisfy him.Would he take her money and let her go Ah, if Mr. Touchett'sgreat charity would but help her to-day it would be blessed in-deed! It was not slow to occur to her that if Madame Merle hadwished to do Gilbert a service his recognition to her of the

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boon must have lost its warmth. What must be his feelings to-day in regard to his too zealous benefactress, and what expres-sion must they have found on the part of such a master ofirony? It is a singular, but a characteristic, fact that before Isa-bel returned from her silent drive she had broken its silence bythe soft exclamation: "Poor, poor Madame Merle!"

Her compassion would perhaps have been justified if on thissame afternoon she had been concealed behind one of the valu-able curtains of time-softened damask which dressed the inter-esting little salon of the lady to whom it referred; the carefully-arranged apartment to which we once paid a visit in companywith the discreet Mr. Rosier. In that apartment, towards sixo'clock, Gilbert Osmond was seated, and his hostess stood be-fore him as Isabel had seen her stand on an occasion commem-orated in this history with an emphasis appropriate not somuch to its apparent as to its real importance.

"I don't believe you're unhappy; I believe you like it," saidMadame Merle.

"Did I say I was unhappy?" Osmond asked with a face graveenough to suggest that he might have been.

"No, but you don't say the contrary, as you ought in commongratitude."

"Don't talk about gratitude," he returned dryly. "And don'taggravate me," he added in a moment.

Madame Merle slowly seated herself, with her arms foldedand her white hands arranged as a support to one of them andan ornament, as it were, to the other. She looked exquisitelycalm but impressively sad. "On your side, don't try to frightenme. I wonder if you guess some of my thoughts."

"I trouble about them no more than I can help. I've quiteenough of my own."

"That's because they're so delightful."Osmond rested his head against the back of his chair and

looked at his companion with a cynical directness whichseemed also partly an expression of fatigue. "You do aggravateme," he remarked in a moment. "I'm very tired."

"Eh moi donc!" cried Madame Merle."With you it's because you fatigue yourself. With me it's not

my own fault."

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"When I fatigue myself it's for you. I've given you an interest.That's a great gift."

"Do you call it an interest?" Osmond enquired withdetachment.

"Certainly, since it helps you to pass your time.""The time has never seemed longer to me than this winter.""You've never looked better; you've never been so agreeable,

so brilliant.""Damn my brilliancy!" he thoughtfully murmured. "How

little, after all, you know me!""If I don't know you I know nothing," smiled Madame Merle.

"You've the feeling of complete success.""No, I shall not have that till I've made you stop judging me.""I did that long ago. I speak from old knowledge. But you ex-

press yourself more too."Osmond just hung fire. "I wish you'd express yourself less!""You wish to condemn me to silence? Remember that I've

never been a chatterbox. At any rate there are three or fourthings I should like to say to you first. Your wife doesn't knowwhat to do with herself," she went on with a change of tone.

"Pardon me; she knows perfectly. She has a line sharplydrawn. She means to carry out her ideas."

"Her ideas to-day must be remarkable.""Certainly they are. She has more of them than ever.""She was unable to show me any this morning," said Madame

Merle. "She seemed in a very simple, almost in a stupid, stateof mind. She was completely bewildered."

"You had better say at once that she was pathetic.""Ah no, I don't want to encourage you too much."He still had his head against the cushion behind him; the

ankle of one foot rested on the other knee. So he sat for awhile. "I should like to know what's the matter with you," hesaid at last.

"The matter—the matter—!" And here Madame Merlestopped. Then she went on with a sudden outbreak of passion,a burst of summer thunder in a clear sky: "The matter is that Iwould give my right hand to be able to weep, and that I can't!"

"What good would it do you to weep?""It would make me feel as I felt before I knew you."

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"If I've dried your tears, that's something. But I've seen youshed them."

"Oh, I believe you'll make me cry still. I mean make me howllike a wolf. I've a great hope, I've a great need, of that. I wasvile this morning; I was horrid," she said.

"If Isabel was in the stupid state of mind you mention sheprobably didn't perceive it," Osmond answered.

"It was precisely my deviltry that stupefied her. I couldn'thelp it; I was full of something bad. Perhaps it was somethinggood; I don't know. You've not only dried up my tears; you'vedried up my soul."

"It's not I then that am responsible for my wife's condition,"Osmond said. "It's pleasant to think that I shall get the benefitof your influence upon her. Don't you know the soul is an im-mortal principle? How can it suffer alteration?"

"I don't believe at all that it's an immortal principle. I believeit can perfectly be destroyed. That's what has happened tomine, which was a very good one to start with; and it's you Ihave to thank for it. You're VERY bad," she added with gravityin her emphasis.

"Is this the way we're to end?" Osmond asked with the samestudied coldness.

"I don't know how we're to end. I wish I did—How do badpeople end?—especially as to their COMMON crimes. You havemade me as bad as yourself."

"I don't understand you. You seem to me quite good enough,"said Osmond, his conscious indifference giving an extreme ef-fect to the words.

Madame Merle's self-possession tended on the contrary to di-minish, and she was nearer losing it than on any occasion onwhich we have had the pleasure of meeting her. The glow ofher eye turners sombre; her smile betrayed a painful effort."Good enough for anything that I've done with myself? I sup-pose that's what you mean."

"Good enough to be always charming!" Osmond exclaimed,smiling too.

"Oh God!" his companion murmured; and, sitting there in herripe freshness, she had recourse to the same gesture she hadprovoked on Isabel's part in the morning: she bent her face andcovered it with her hands.

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"Are you going to weep after all?" Osmond asked; and on herremaining motionless he went on: "Have I ever complained toyou?"

She dropped her hands quickly. "No, you've taken your re-venge otherwise—you have taken it on HER."

Osmond threw back his head further; he looked a while atthe ceiling and might have been supposed to be appealing, inan informal way, to the heavenly powers. "Oh, the imaginationof women! It's always vulgar, at bottom. You talk of revengelike a third-rate novelist."

"Of course you haven't complained. You've enjoyed your tri-umph too much."

"I'm rather curious to know what you call my triumph.""You've made your wife afraid of you."Osmond changed his position; he leaned forward, resting his

elbows on his knees and looking a while at a beautiful old Per-sian rug, at his feet. He had an air of refusing to accept anyone's valuation of anything, even of time, and of preferring toabide by his own; a peculiarity which made him at moments anirritating person to converse with. "Isabel's not afraid of me,and it's not what I wish," he said at last. "To what do you wantto provoke me when you say such things as that?"

"I've thought over all the harm you can do me," MadameMerle answered. "Your wife was afraid of me this morning, butin me it was really you she feared."

"You may have said things that were in very bad taste; I'mnot responsible for that. I didn't see the use of your going tosee her at all: you're capable of acting without her. I've notmade you afraid of me that I can see," he went on; "how thenshould I have made her? You're at least as brave. I can't thinkwhere you've picked up such rubbish; one might suppose youknew me by this time." He got up as he spoke and walked tothe chimney, where he stood a moment bending his eye, as ifhe had seen them for the first time, on the delicate specimensof rare porcelain with which it was covered. He took up a smallcup and held it in his hand; then, still holding it and leaning hisarm on the mantel, he pursued: "You always see too much inseverything; you overdo it; you lose sight of the real. I'm muchsimpler than you think."

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"I think you're very simple." And Madame Merle kept her eyeon her cup. "I've come to that with time. I judged you, as I say,of old; but it's only since your marriage that I've understoodyou. I've seen better what you have been to your wife than Iever saw what you were for me. Please be very careful of thatprecious object."

"It already has a wee bit of a tiny crack," said Osmond drylyas he put it down. "If you didn't understand me before I mar-ried it was cruelly rash of you to put me into such a box.However, I took a fancy to my box myself; I thought it would bea comfortable fit. I asked very little; I only asked that sheshould like me."

"That she should like you so much!""So much, of course; in such a case one asks the maximum.

That she should adore me, if you will. Oh yes, I wanted that.""I never adored you," said Madame Merle."Ah, but you pretended to!""It's true that you never accused me of being a comfortable

fit," Madame Merle went on."My wife has declined—declined to do anything of the sort,"

said Osmond. "If you're determined to make a tragedy of that,the tragedy's hardly for her."

"The tragedy's for me!" Madame Merle exclaimed, risingwith a long low sigh but having a glance at the same time forthe contents of her mantel-shelf.

"It appears that I'm to be severely taught the disadvantagesof a false position."

"You express yourself like a sentence in a copybook. We mustlook for our comfort where we can find it. If my wife doesn'tlike me, at least my child does. I shall look for compensationsin Pansy. Fortunately I haven't a fault to find with her."

"Ah," she said softly, "if I had a child—!"Osmond waited, and then, with a little formal air, "The chil-

dren of others may be a great interest!" he announced."You're more like a copy-book than I. There's something after

all that holds us together.""Is it the idea of the harm I may do you?" Osmond asked."No; it's the idea of the good I may do for you. It's that," Ma-

dame Merle pursued, "that made me so jealous of Isabel. I

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want it to be MY work," she added, with her face, which hadgrown hard and bitter, relaxing to its habit of smoothness.

Her friend took up his hat and his umbrella, and after givingthe former article two or three strokes with his coat-cuff, "Onthe whole, I think," he said, "you had better leave it to me."

After he had left her she went, the first thing, and lifted fromthe mantel-shelf the attenuated coffee-cup in which he hadmentioned the existence of a crack; but she looked at it ratherabstractedly. "Have I been so vile all for nothing?" she vaguelywailed.

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Chapter 50As the Countess Gemini was not acquainted with the ancientmonuments Isabel occasionally offered to introduce her tothese interesting relics and to give their afternoon drive an an-tiquarian aim. The Countess, who professed to think her sister-in-law a prodigy of learning, never made an objection, andgazed at masses of Roman brickwork as patiently as if they hadbeen mounds of modern drapery. She had not the historicsense, though she had in some directions the anecdotic, and asregards herself the apologetic, but she was so delighted to bein Rome that she only desired to float with the current. Shewould gladly have passed an hour every day in the damp dark-ness of the Baths of Titus if it had been a condition of her re-maining at Palazzo Roccanera. Isabel, however, was not asevere cicerone; she used to visit the ruins chiefly becausethey offered an excuse for talking about other matters than thelove affairs of the ladies of Florence, as to which her compan-ion was never weary of offering information. It must be addedthat during these visits the Countess forbade herself everyform of active research; her preference was to sit in the car-riage and exclaim that everything was most interesting. It wasin this manner that she had hitherto examined the Coliseum, tothe infinite regret of her niece, who— with all the respect thatshe owed her—could not see why she should not descend fromthe vehicle and enter the building. Pansy had so little chance toramble that her view of the case was not wholly disinterested;it may be divined that she had a secret hope that, once inside,her parents' guest might be induced to climb to the uppertiers. There came a day when the Countess announced her will-ingness to undertake this feat—a mild afternoon in Marchwhen the windy month expressed itself in occasional puffs ofspring. The three ladies went into the Coliseum together, butIsabel left her companions to wander over the place. She had

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often ascended to those desolate ledges from which the Romancrowd used to bellow applause and where now the wild flowers(when they are allowed) bloom in the deep crevices; and to-dayshe felt weary and disposed to sit in the despoiled arena. Itmade an intermission too, for the Countess often asked morefrom one's attention than she gave in return; and Isabel be-lieved that when she was alone with her niece she let the dustgather for a moment on the ancient scandals of the Arnide. Sheso remained below therefore, while Pansy guided her undis-criminating aunt to the steep brick staircase at the foot ofwhich the custodian unlocks the tall wooden gate. The greatenclosure was half in shadow; the western sun brought out thepale red tone of the great blocks of travertine—the latent col-our that is the only living element in the immense ruin. Hereand there wandered a peasant or a tourist, looking up at thefar sky-line where, in the clear stillness, a multitude of swal-lows kept circling and plunging. Isabel presently becameaware that one of the other visitors, planted in the middle ofthe arena, had turned his attention to her own person and waslooking at her with a certain little poise of the head which shehad some weeks before perceived to be characteristic ofbaffled but indestructible purpose. Such an attitude, to-day,could belong only to Mr. Edward Rosier; and this gentlemanproved in fact to have been considering the question of speak-ing to her. When he had assured himself that she was unac-companied he drew near, remarking that though she would notanswer his letters she would perhaps not wholly close her earsto his spoken eloquence. She replied that her stepdaughterwas close at hand and that she could only give him fiveminutes; whereupon he took out his watch and sat down upona broken block.

"It's very soon told," said Edward Rosier. "I've sold all mybibelots!" Isabel gave instinctively an exclamation of horror; itwas as if he had told her he had had all his teeth drawn. "I'vesold them by auction at the Hotel Drouot," he went on. "Thesale took place three days ago, and they've telegraphed me theresult. It's magnificent."

"I'm glad to hear it; but I wish you had kept your prettythings."

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"I have the money instead—fifty thousand dollars. Will Mr.Osmond think me rich enough now?"

"Is it for that you did it?" Isabel asked gently."For what else in the world could it be? That's the only thing

I think of. I went to Paris and made my arrangements. Icouldn't stop for the sale; I couldn't have seen them going off; Ithink it would have killed me. But I put them into good hands,and they brought high prices. I should tell you I have kept myenamels. Now I have the money in my pocket, and he can't sayI'm poor!" the young man exclaimed defiantly.

"He'll say now that you're not wise," said Isabel, as if GilbertOsmond had never said this before.

Rosier gave her a sharp look. "Do you mean that without mybibelots I'm nothing? Do you mean they were the best thingabout me? That's what they told me in Paris; oh they were veryfrank about it. But they hadn't seen HER!"

"My dear friend, you deserve to succeed," said Isabel verykindly.

"You say that so sadly that it's the same as if you said Ishouldn't." And he questioned her eyes with the clear trepida-tion of his own. He had the air of a man who knows he hasbeen the talk of Paris for a week and is full half a head taller inconsequence, but who also has a painful suspicion that in spiteof this increase of stature one or two persons still have the per-versity to think him diminutive. "I know what happened herewhile I was away," he went on; "What does Mr. Osmond expectafter she has refused Lord Warburton?"

Isabel debated. "That she'll marry another nobleman.""What other nobleman?""One that he'll pick out."Rosier slowly got up, putting his watch into his waistcoat-

pocket. "You're laughing at some one, but this time I don'tthink it's at me."

"I didn't mean to laugh," said Isabel. "I laugh very seldom.Now you had better go away."

"I feel very safe!" Rosier declared without moving. Thismight be; but it evidently made him feel more so to make theannouncement in rather a loud voice, balancing himself a littlecomplacently on his toes and looking all round the Coliseum asif it were filled with an audience. Suddenly Isabel saw him

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change colour; there was more of an audience than he had sus-pected. She turned and perceived that her two companions hadreturned from their excursion. "You must really go away," shesaid quickly. "Ah, my dear lady, pity me!" Edward Rosier mur-mured in a voice strangely at variance with the announcementI have just quoted. And then he added eagerly, like a man whoin the midst of his misery is seized by a happy thought: "Is thatlady the Countess Gemini? I've a great desire to be presentedto her."

Isabel looked at him a moment. "She has no influence withher brother."

"Ah, what a monster you make him out!" And Rosier facedthe Countess, who advanced, in front of Pansy, with an anima-tion partly due perhaps to the fact that she perceived hersister-in-law to be engaged in conversation with a very prettyyoung man.

"I'm glad you've kept your enamels!" Isabel called as she lefthim. She went straight to Pansy, who, on seeing Edward Rosi-er, had stopped short, with lowered eyes. "We'll go back to thecarriage," she said gently.

"Yes, it's getting late," Pansy returned more gently still. Andshe went on without a murmur, without faltering or glancingback. Isabel, however, allowing herself this last liberty, sawthat a meeting had immediately taken place between theCountess and Mr. Rosier. He had removed his hat and wasbowing and smiling; he had evidently introduced himself, whilethe Countess's expressive back displayed to Isabel's eye a gra-cious inclination. These facts, none the less, were presentlylost to sight, for Isabel and Pansy took their places again in thecarriage. Pansy, who faced her stepmother, at first kept hereyes fixed on her lap; then she raised them and rested them onIsabel's. There shone out of each of them a little melancholyray—a spark of timid passion which touched Isabel to theheart. At the same time a wave of envy passed over her soul, asshe compared the tremulous longing, the definite ideal of thechild with her own dry despair. "Poor little Pansy!" she affec-tionately said.

"Oh never mind!" Pansy answered in the tone of eager apo-logy. And then there was a silence; the Countess was a long

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time coming. "Did you show your aunt everything, and did sheenjoy it?" Isabel asked at last.

"Yes, I showed her everything. I think she was very muchpleased."

"And you're not tired, I hope.""Oh no, thank you, I'm not tired."The Countess still remained behind, so that Isabel requested

the footman to go into the Coliseum and tell her they werewaiting. He presently returned with the announcement that theSignora Contessa begged them not to wait—she would comehome in a cab!

About a week after this lady's quick sympathies had enlistedthemselves with Mr. Rosier, Isabel, going rather late to dressfor dinner, found Pansy sitting in her room. The girl seemed tohave been awaiting her; she got up from her low chair. "Pardonmy taking the liberty," she said in a small voice. "It will be thelast—for some time."

Her voice was strange, and her eyes, widely opened, had anexcited, frightened look. "You're not going away!" Isabelexclaimed.

"I'm going to the convent.""To the convent?"Pansy drew nearer, till she was near enough to put her arms

round Isabel and rest her head on her shoulder. She stood thisway a moment, perfectly still; but her companion could feel hertremble. The quiver of her little body expressed everything shewas unable to say. Isabel nevertheless pressed her. "Why areyou going to the convent?"

"Because papa thinks it best. He says a young girl's better,every now and then, for making a little retreat. He says theworld, always the world, is very bad for a young girl. This isjust a chance for a little seclusion—a little reflexion." Pansyspoke in short detached sentences, as if she could scarce trustherself; and then she added with a triumph of self-control: "Ithink papa's right; I've been so much in the world this winter."

Her announcement had a strange effect on Isabel; it seemedto carry a larger meaning than the girl herself knew. "Whenwas this decided?" she asked. "I've heard nothing of it."

"Papa told me half an hour ago; he thought it better itshouldn't be too much talked about in advance. Madame

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Catherine's to come for me at a quarter past seven, and I'monly to take two frocks. It's only for a few weeks; I'm sure itwill be very good. I shall find all those ladies who used to be sokind to me, and I shall see the little girls who are being edu-cated. I'm very fond of little girls," said Pansy with an effect ofdiminutive grandeur. "And I'm also very fond of Mother Cather-ine. I shall be very quiet and think a great deal."

Isabel listened to her, holding her breath; she was almostawe-struck. "Think of ME sometimes."

"Ah, come and see me soon!" cried Pansy; and the cry wasvery different from the heroic remarks of which she had justdelivered herself.

Isabel could say nothing more; she understood nothing; sheonly felt how little she yet knew her husband. Her answer tohis daughter was a long, tender kiss.

Half an hour later she learned from her maid that MadameCatherine had arrived in a cab and had departed again withthe signorina. On going to the drawing-room before dinner shefound the Countess Gemini alone, and this lady characterisedthe incident by exclaiming, with a wonderful toss of the head,"En voila, ma chere, une pose!" But if it was an affectation shewas at a loss to see what her husband affected. She could onlydimly perceive that he had more traditions than she supposed.It had become her habit to be so careful as to what she said tohim that, strange as it may appear, she hesitated, for severalminutes after he had come in, to allude to his daughter's sud-den departure: she spoke of it only after they were seated attable. But she had forbidden herself ever to ask Osmond aquestion. All she could do was to make a declaration, and therewas one that came very naturally. "I shall miss Pansy verymuch."

He looked a while, with his head inclined a little, at the bas-ket of flowers in the middle of the table. "Ah yes," he said atlast, "I had thought of that. You must go and see her, youknow; but not too often. I dare say you wonder why I sent herto the good sisters; but I doubt if I can make you understand. Itdoesn't matter; don't trouble yourself about it. That's why I hadnot spoken of it. I didn't believe you would enter into it. ButI've always had the idea; I've always thought it a part of theeducation of one's daughter. One's daughter should be fresh

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and fair; she should be innocent and gentle. With the mannersof the present time she is liable to become so dusty andcrumpled. Pansy's a little dusty, a little dishevelled; she hasknocked about too much. This bustling, pushing rabble thatcalls itself society—one should take her out of it occasionally.Convents are very quiet, very convenient, very salutary. I liketo think of her there, in the old garden, under the arcade,among those tranquil virtuous women. Many of them are gen-tlewomen born; several of them are noble. She will have herbooks and her drawing, she will have her piano. I've made themost liberal arrangements. There is to be nothing ascetic;there's just to be a certain little sense of sequestration. She'llhave time to think, and there's something I want her to thinkabout." Osmond spoke deliberately, reasonably, still with hishead on one side, as if he were looking at the basket of flowers.His tone, however, was that of a man not so much offering anexplanation as putting a thing into words—almost into pic-tures—to see, himself, how it would look. He considered awhile the picture he had evoked and seemed greatly pleasedwith it. And then he went on: "The Catholics are very wise afterall. The convent is a great institution; we can't do without it; itcorresponds to an essential need in families, in society. It's aschool of good manners; it's a school of repose. Oh, I don'twant to detach my daughter from the world," he added; "I don'twant to make her fix her thoughts on any other. This one's verywell, as SHE should take it, and she may think of it as much asshe likes. Only she must think of it in the right way."

Isabel gave an extreme attention to this little sketch; shefound it indeed intensely interesting. It seemed to show herhow far her husband's desire to be effective was capable of go-ing—to the point of playing theoretic tricks on the delicate or-ganism of his daughter. She could not understand his purpose,no—not wholly; but she understood it better than he supposedor desired, inasmuch as she was convinced that the whole pro-ceeding was an elaborate mystification, addressed to herselfand destined to act upon her imagination. He had wanted to dosomething sudden and arbitrary, something unexpected andrefined; to mark the difference between his sympathies and herown, and show that if he regarded his daughter as a preciouswork of art it was natural he should be more and more careful

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about the finishing touches. If he wished to be effective he hadsucceeded; the incident struck a chill into Isabel's heart. Pansyhad known the convent in her childhood and had found a happyhome there; she was fond of the good sisters, who were veryfond of her, and there was therefore for the moment no defin-ite hardship in her lot. But all the same the girl had takenfright; the impression her father desired to make would evid-ently be sharp enough. The old Protestant tradition had neverfaded from Isabel's imagination, and as her thoughts attachedthemselves to this striking example of her husband's geni-us—she sat looking, like him, at the basket of flowers—poorlittle Pansy became the heroine of a tragedy. Osmond wished itto be known that he shrank from nothing, and his wife found ithard to pretend to eat her dinner. There was a certain reliefpresently, in hearing the high, strained voice of her sister-in-law. The Countess too, apparently, had been thinking the thingout, but had arrived at a different conclusion from Isabel.

"It's very absurd, my dear Osmond," she said, "to invent somany pretty reasons for poor Pansy's banishment. Why, don'tyou say at once that you want to get her out of my way?Haven't you discovered that I think very well of Mr. Rosier? Ido indeed; he seems to me simpaticissimo. He has made me be-lieve in true love; I never did before! Of course you've made upyour mind that with those convictions I'm dreadful company forPansy."

Osmond took a sip of a glass of wine; he looked perfectlygood-humoured. "My dear Amy," he answered, smiling as if hewere uttering a piece of gallantry, "I don't know anythingabout your convictions, but if I suspected that they interferewith mine it would be much simpler to banish YOU."

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Chapter 51The Countess was not banished, but she felt the insecurity ofher tenure of her brother's hospitality. A week after this incid-ent Isabel received a telegram from England, dated fromGardencourt and bearing the stamp of Mrs. Touchett's author-ship. "Ralph cannot last many days," it ran, "and if convenientwould like to see you. Wishes me to say that you must comeonly if you've not other duties. Say, for myself, that you used totalk a good deal about your duty and to wonder what it was;shall be curious to see whether you've found it out. Ralph isreally dying, and there's no other company." Isabel was pre-pared for this news, having received from Henrietta Stackpolea detailed account of her journey to England with her appreci-ative patient. Ralph had arrived more dead than alive, but shehad managed to convey him to Gardencourt, where he hadtaken to his bed, which, as Miss Stackpole wrote, he evidentlywould never leave again. She added that she had really hadtwo patients on her hands instead of one, inasmuch as Mr.Goodwood, who had been of no earthly use, was quite as ailing,in a different way, as Mr. Touchett. Afterwards she wrote thatshe had been obliged to surrender the field to Mrs. Touchett,who had just returned from America and had promptly givenher to understand that she didn't wish any interviewing atGardencourt. Isabel had written to her aunt shortly after Ralphcame to Rome, letting her know of his critical condition andsuggesting that she should lose no time in returning to Europe.Mrs. Touchett had telegraphed an acknowledgement of this ad-monition, and the only further news Isabel received from herwas the second telegram I have just quoted.

Isabel stood a moment looking at the latter missive; then,thrusting it into her pocket, she went straight to the door ofher husband's study. Here she again paused an instant, afterwhich she opened the door and went in. Osmond was seated at

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the table near the window with a folio volume before him,propped against a pile of books. This volume was open at apage of small coloured plates, and Isabel presently saw that hehad been copying from it the drawing of an antique coin. A boxof water-colours and fine brushes lay before him, and he hadalready transferred to a sheet of immaculate paper thedelicate, finely-tinted disk. His back was turned toward thedoor, but he recognised his wife without looking round.

"Excuse me for disturbing you," she said."When I come to your room I always knock," he answered,

going on with his work."I forgot; I had something else to think of. My cousin's

dying.""Ah, I don't believe that," said Osmond, looking at his draw-

ing through a magnifying glass. "He was dying when we mar-ried; he'll outlive us all."

Isabel gave herself no time, no thought, to appreciate thecareful cynicism of this declaration; she simply went onquickly, full of her own intention "My aunt has telegraphed forme; I must go to Gardencourt."

"Why must you go to Gardencourt?" Osmond asked in thetone of impartial curiosity.

"To see Ralph before he dies."To this, for some time, he made no rejoinder; he continued to

give his chief attention to his work, which was of a sort thatwould brook no negligence. "I don't see the need of it," he saidat last. "He came to see you here. I didn't like that; I thoughthis being in Rome a great mistake. But I tolerated it because itwas to be the last time you should see him. Now you tell me it'snot to have been the last. Ah, you're not grateful!"

"What am I to be grateful for?"Gilbert Osmond laid down his little implements, blew a speck

of dust from his drawing, slowly got up, and for the first timelooked at his wife. "For my not having interfered while he washere."

"Oh yes, I am. I remember perfectly how distinctly you let meknow you didn't like it. I was very glad when he went away."

"Leave him alone then. Don't run after him."Isabel turned her eyes away from him; they rested upon his

little drawing. "I must go to England," she said, with a full

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consciousness that her tone might strike an irritable man oftaste as stupidly obstinate.

"I shall not like it if you do," Osmond remarked."Why should I mind that? You won't like it if I don't. You like

nothing I do or don't do. You pretend to think I lie."Osmond turned slightly pale; he gave a cold smile. "That's

why you must go then? Not to see your cousin, but to take a re-venge on me."

"I know nothing about revenge.""I do," said Osmond. "Don't give me an occasion.""You're only too eager to take one. You wish immensely that I

would commit some folly.""I should be gratified in that case if you disobeyed me.""If I disobeyed you?" said Isabel in a low tone which had the

effect of mildness."Let it be clear. If you leave Rome to-day it will be a piece of

the most deliberate, the most calculated, opposition.""How can you call it calculated? I received my aunt's tele-

gram but three minutes ago.""You calculate rapidly; it's a great accomplishment. I don't

see why we should prolong our discussion; you know my wish."And he stood there as if he expected to see her withdraw.

But she never moved; she couldn't move, strange as it mayseem; she still wished to justify herself; he had the power, inan extraordinary degree, of making her feel this need. Therewas something in her imagination he could always appeal toagainst her judgement. "You've no reason for such a wish," saidIsabel, "and I've every reason for going. I can't tell you how un-just you seem to me. But I think you know. It's your own oppos-ition that's calculated. It's malignant."

She had never uttered her worst thought to her husband be-fore, and the sensation of hearing it was evidently new to Os-mond. But he showed no surprise, and his coolness was appar-ently a proof that he had believed his wife would in fact be un-able to resist for ever his ingenious endeavour to draw her out."It's all the more intense then," he answered. And he added al-most as if he were giving her a friendly counsel: "This is a veryimportant matter." She recognised that; she was fully con-scious of the weight of the occasion; she knew that betweenthem they had arrived at a crisis. Its gravity made her careful;

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she said nothing, and he went on. "You say I've no reason? Ihave the very best. I dislike, from the bottom of my soul, whatyou intend to do. It's dishonourable; it's indelicate; it's inde-cent. Your cousin is nothing whatever to me, and I'm under noobligation to make concessions to him. I've already made thevery handsomest. Your relations with him, while he was here,kept me on pins and needles; but I let that pass, because fromweek to week I expected him to go. I've never liked him and hehas never liked me. That's why you like him—because he hatesme," said Osmond with a quick, barely audible tremor in hisvoice. "I've an ideal of what my wife should do and should notdo. She should not travel across Europe alone, in defiance ofmy deepest desire, to sit at the bedside of other men. Yourcousin's nothing to you; he's nothing to us. You smile most ex-pressively when I talk about US, but I assure you that WE, WE,Mrs. Osmond, is all I know. I take our marriage seriously; youappear to have found a way of not doing so. I'm not aware thatwe're divorced or separated; for me we're indissolubly united.You are nearer to me than any human creature, and I'm nearerto you. It may be a disagreeable proximity; it's one, at any rate,of our own deliberate making. You don't like to be reminded ofthat, I know; but I'm perfectly willing, because—because—"And he paused a moment, looking as if he had something to saywhich would be very much to the point. "Because I think weshould accept the consequences of our actions, and what Ivalue most in life is the honour of a thing!"

He spoke gravely and almost gently; the accent of sarcasmhad dropped out of his tone. It had a gravity which checked hiswife's quick emotion; the resolution with which she hadentered the room found itself caught in a mesh of fine threads.His last words were not a command, they constituted a kind ofappeal; and, though she felt that any expression of respect onhis part could only be a refinement of egotism, they represen-ted something transcendent and absolute, like the sign of thecross or the flag of one's country. He spoke in the name ofsomething sacred and precious—the observance of a magnifi-cent form. They were as perfectly apart in feeling as two disil-lusioned lovers had ever been; but they had never yet separ-ated in act. Isabel had not changed; her old passion for justicestill abode within her; and now, in the very thick of her sense

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of her husband's blasphemous sophistry, it began to throb to atune which for a moment promised him the victory. It cameover her that in his wish to preserve appearances he was afterall sincere, and that this, as far as it went, was a merit. Tenminutes before she had felt all the joy of irreflective action—ajoy to which she had so long been a stranger; but action hadbeen suddenly changed to slow renunciation, transformed bythe blight of Osmond's touch. If she must renounce, however,she would let him know she was a victim rather than a dupe. "Iknow you're a master of the art of mockery," she said. "Howcan you speak of an indissoluble union —how can you speak ofyour being contented? Where's our union when you accuse meof falsity? Where's your contentment when you have nothingbut hideous suspicion in your heart?"

"It is in our living decently together, in spite of suchdrawbacks."

"We don't live decently together!" cried Isabel."Indeed we don't if you go to England.""That's very little; that's nothing. I might do much more."He raised his eyebrows and even his shoulders a little: he

had lived long enough in Italy to catch this trick. "Ah, if you'vecome to threaten me I prefer my drawing." And he walked backto his table, where he took up the sheet of paper on which hehad been working and stood studying it.

"I suppose that if I go you'll not expect me to come back,"said Isabel.

He turned quickly round, and she could see this movement atleast was not designed. He looked at her a little, and then, "Areyou out of your mind?" he enquired.

"How can it be anything but a rupture?" she went on; "espe-cially if all you say is true?" She was unable to see how it couldbe anything but a rupture; she sincerely wished to know whatelse it might be.

He sat down before his table. "I really can't argue with youon the hypothesis of your defying me," he said. And he took upone of his little brushes again.

She lingered but a moment longer; long enough to embracewith her eye his whole deliberately indifferent yet most ex-pressive figure; after which she quickly left the room. Her fac-ulties, her energy, her passion, were all dispersed again; she

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felt as if a cold, dark mist had suddenly encompassed her. Os-mond possessed in a supreme degree the art of eliciting anyweakness. On her way back to her room she found the Count-ess Gemini standing in the open doorway of a little parlour inwhich a small collection of heterogeneous books had been ar-ranged. The Countess had an open volume in her hand; she ap-peared to have been glancing down a page which failed tostrike her as interesting. At the sound of Isabel's step sheraised her head.

"Ah my dear," she said, "you, who are so literary, do tell mesome amusing book to read! Everything here's of a dreari-ness—! Do you think this would do me any good?"

Isabel glanced at the title of the volume she held out, butwithout reading or understanding it. "I'm afraid I can't adviseyou. I've had bad news. My cousin, Ralph Touchett, is dying."

The Countess threw down her book. "Ah, he was so sim-patico. I'm awfully sorry for you."

"You would be sorrier still if you knew.""What is there to know? You look very badly," the Countess

added. "You must have been with Osmond."Half an hour before Isabel would have listened very coldly to

an intimation that she should ever feel a desire for the sym-pathy of her sister-in-law, and there can be no better proof ofher present embarrassment than the fact that she almostclutched at this lady's fluttering attention. "I've been with Os-mond," she said, while the Countess's bright eyes glittered ather.

"I'm sure then he has been odious!" the Countess cried. "Didhe say he was glad poor Mr. Touchett's dying?"

"He said it's impossible I should go to England."The Countess's mind, when her interests were concerned,

was agile; she already foresaw the extinction of any furtherbrightness in her visit to Rome. Ralph Touchett would die, Isa-bel would go into mourning, and then there would be no moredinner-parties. Such a prospect produced for a moment in hercountenance an expressive grimace; but this rapid, picturesqueplay of feature was her only tribute to disappointment. Afterall, she reflected, the game was almost played out; she hadalready overstayed her invitation. And then she cared enough

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for Isabel's trouble to forget her own, and she saw that Isabel'strouble was deep.

It seemed deeper than the mere death of a cousin, and theCountess had no hesitation in connecting her exasperatingbrother with the expression of her sister-in-law's eyes. Herheart beat with an almost joyous expectation, for if she hadwished to see Osmond overtopped the conditions looked fa-vourable now. Of course if Isabel should go to England she her-self would immediately leave Palazzo Roccanera; nothingwould induce her to remain there with Osmond. Neverthelessshe felt an immense desire to hear that Isabel would go to Eng-land. "Nothing's impossible for you, my dear," she said caress-ingly. "Why else are you rich and clever and good?"

"Why indeed? I feel stupidly weak.""Why does Osmond say it's impossible?" the Countess asked

in a tone which sufficiently declared that she couldn't imagine.From the moment she thus began to question her, however,

Isabel drew back; she disengaged her hand, which the Count-ess had affectionately taken. But she answered this enquirywith frank bitterness. "Because we're so happy together thatwe can't separate even for a fortnight."

"Ah," cried the Countess while Isabel turned away, "when Iwant to make a journey my husband simply tells me I can haveno money!"

Isabel went to her room, where she walked up and down foran hour. It may appear to some readers that she gave herselfmuch trouble, and it is certain that for a woman of a high spiritshe had allowed herself easily to be arrested. It seemed to herthat only now she fully measured the great undertaking of mat-rimony. Marriage meant that in such a case as this, when onehad to choose, one chose as a matter of course for one's hus-band. "I'm afraid—yes, I'm afraid," she said to herself morethan once, stopping short in her walk. But what she was afraidof was not her husband—his displeasure, his hatred, his re-venge; it was not even her own later judgement of her conducta consideration which had often held her in check; it wassimply the violence there would be in going when Osmondwished her to remain. A gulf of difference had opened betweenthem, but nevertheless it was his desire that she should stay, itwas a horror to him that she should go. She knew the nervous

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fineness with which he could feel an objection. What hethought of her she knew, what he was capable of saying to hershe had felt; yet they were married, for all that, and marriagemeant that a woman should cleave to the man with whom, ut-tering tremendous vows, she had stood at the altar. She sankdown on her sofa at last and buried her head in a pile ofcushions.

When she raised her head again the Countess Geminihovered before her. She had come in all unperceived; she hada strange smile on her thin lips and her whole face had grownin an hour a shining intimation. She lived assuredly, it might besaid, at the window of her spirit, but now she was leaning farout. "I knocked," she began, "but you didn't answer me. So Iventured in. I've been looking at you for the past five minutes.You're very unhappy."

"Yes; but I don't think you can comfort me.""Will you give me leave to try?" And the Countess sat down

on the sofa beside her. She continued to smile, and there wassomething communicative and exultant in her expression. Sheappeared to have a deal to say, and it occurred to Isabel for thefirst time that her sister-in-law might say something really hu-man. She made play with her glittering eyes, in which therewas an unpleasant fascination. "After all," she soon resumed, "Imust tell you, to begin with, that I don't understand your stateof mind. You seem to have so many scruples, so many reasons,so many ties. When I discovered, ten years ago, that myhusband's dearest wish was to make me miserable—of late hehas simply let me alone —ah, it was a wonderful simplification!My poor Isabel, you're not simple enough."

"No, I'm not simple enough," said Isabel."There's something I want you to know," the Countess de-

clared— "because I think you ought to know it. Perhaps you do;perhaps you've guessed it. But if you have, all I can say is that Iunderstand still less why you shouldn't do as you like."

"What do you wish me to know?" Isabel felt a foreboding thatmade her heart beat faster. The Countess was about to justifyherself, and this alone was portentous.

But she was nevertheless disposed to play a little with hersubject. "In your place I should have guessed it ages ago. Haveyou never really suspected?"

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"I've guessed nothing. What should I have suspected? I don'tknow what you mean."

"That's because you've such a beastly pure mind. I never sawa woman with such a pure mind!" cried the Countess.

Isabel slowly got up. "You're going to tell me somethinghorrible."

"You can call it by whatever name you will!" And the Count-ess rose also, while her gathered perversity grew vivid anddreadful. She stood a moment in a sort of glare of intentionand, as seemed to Isabel even then, of ugliness; after whichshe said: "My first sister-in-law had no children."

Isabel stared back at her; the announcement was an anticli-max. "Your first sister-in-law?"

"I suppose you know at least, if one may mention it, that Os-mond has been married before! I've never spoken to you of hiswife; I thought it mightn't be decent or respectful. But others,less particular, must have done so. The poor little woman livedhardly three years and died childless. It wasn't till after herdeath that Pansy arrived."

Isabel's brow had contracted to a frown; her lips were partedin pale, vague wonder. She was trying to follow; there seemedso much more to follow than she could see. "Pansy's not myhusband's child then?"

"Your husband's—in perfection! But no one else's husband's.Some one else's wife's. Ah, my good Isabel," cried the Count-ess, "with you one must dot one's i's!"

"I don't understand. Whose wife's?" Isabel asked."The wife of a horrid little Swiss who died—how long?—a

dozen, more than fifteen, years ago. He never recognised MissPansy, nor, knowing what he was about, would have anythingto say to her; and there was no reason why he should. Osmonddid, and that was better; though he had to fit on afterwards thewhole rigmarole of his own wife's having died in childbirth, andof his having, in grief and horror, banished the little girl fromhis sight for as long as possible before taking her home fromnurse. His wife had really died, you know, of quite anothermatter and in quite another place: in the Piedmontese moun-tains, where they had gone, one August, because her health ap-peared to require the air, but where she was suddenly takenworse— fatally ill. The story passed, sufficiently; it was covered

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by the appearances so long as nobody heeded, as nobody caredto look into it. But of course I knew—without researches," theCountess lucidly proceeded; "as also, you'll understand,without a word said between us—I mean between Osmond andme. Don't you see him looking at me, in silence, that way, tosettle it?—that is to settle ME if I should say anything. I saidnothing, right or left—never a word to a creature, if you canbelieve that of me: on my honour, my dear, I speak of the thingto you now, after all this time, as I've never, never spoken. Itwas to be enough for me, from the first, that the child was myniece—from the moment she was my brother's daughter. As forher veritable mother—!" But with this Pansy's wonderful auntdropped—as, involuntarily, from the impression of her sister-in-law's face, out of which more eyes might have seemed to lookat her than she had ever had to meet.

She had spoken no name, yet Isabel could but check, on herown lips, an echo of the unspoken. She sank to her seat again,hanging her head. "Why have you told me this?" she asked in avoice the Countess hardly recognised.

"Because I've been so bored with your not knowing. I've beenbored, frankly, my dear, with not having told you; as if, stu-pidly, all this time I couldn't have managed! Ca me depasse, ifyou don't mind my saying so, the things, all round you, thatyou've appeared to succeed in not knowing. It's a sort of assist-ance—aid to innocent ignorance—that I've always been a badhand at rendering; and in this connexion, that of keeping quietfor my brother, my virtue has at any rate finally found itself ex-hausted. It's not a black lie, moreover, you know," the Count-ess inimitably added. "The facts are exactly what I tell you."

"I had no idea," said Isabel presently; and looked up at her ina manner that doubtless matched the apparent witlessness ofthis confession.

"So I believed—though it was hard to believe. Had it neveroccurred to you that he was for six or seven years her lover?"

"I don't know. Things HAVE occurred to me, and perhapsthat was what they all meant."

"She has been wonderfully clever, she has been magnificent,about Pansy!" the Countess, before all this view of it, cried.

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"Oh, no idea, for me," Isabel went on, "ever DEFINITELYtook that form." She appeared to be making out to herself whathad been and what hadn't. "And as it is—I don't understand."

She spoke as one troubled and puzzled, yet the poor Count-ess seemed to have seen her revelation fall below its possibilit-ies of effect. She had expected to kindle some responsive blaze,but had barely extracted a spark. Isabel showed as scarcemore impressed than she might have been, as a young womanof approved imagination, with some fine sinister passage ofpublic history. "Don't you recognise how the child could neverpass for HER husband's?—that is with M. Merle himself," hercompanion resumed. "They had been separated too long forthat, and he had gone to some far country—I think to SouthAmerica. If she had ever had children—which I'm not sureof—she had lost them. The conditions happened to make itworkable, under stress (I mean at so awkward a pinch), thatOsmond should acknowledge the little girl. His wife wasdead—very true; but she had not been dead too long to put acertain accommodation of dates out of the question—from themoment, I mean, that suspicion wasn't started; which was whatthey had to take care of. What was more natural than that poorMrs. Osmond, at a distance and for a world not troubling abouttrifles, should have left behind her, poverina, the pledge of herbrief happiness that had cost her her life? With the aid of achange of residence—Osmond had been living with her atNaples at the time of their stay in the Alps, and he in duecourse left it for ever—the whole history was successfully setgoing. My poor sister-in-law, in her grave, couldn't help her-self, and the real mother, to save HER skin, renounced all vis-ible property in the child."

"Ah, poor, poor woman!" cried Isabel, who herewith burst in-to tears. It was a long time since she had shed any; she hadsuffered a high reaction from weeping. But now they flowedwith an abundance in which the Countess Gemini found onlyanother discomfiture.

"It's very kind of you to pity her!" she discordantly laughed."Yes indeed, you have a way of your own—!"

"He must have been false to his wife—and so very soon!" saidIsabel with a sudden check.

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"That's all that's wanting—that you should take up hercause!" the Countess went on. "I quite agree with you,however, that it was much too soon."

"But to me, to me—?" And Isabel hesitated as if she had notheard; as if her question—though it was sufficiently there inher eyes—were all for herself.

"To you he has been faithful? Well, it depends, my dear, onwhat you call faithful. When he married you he was no longerthe lover of another woman—SUCH a lover as he had been,cara mia, between their risks and their precautions, while thething lasted! That state of affairs had passed away; the ladyhad repented, or at all events, for reasons of her own, drawnback: she had always had, too, a worship of appearances so in-tense that even Osmond himself had got bored with it. You maytherefore imagine what it was—when he couldn't patch it onconveniently to ANY of those he goes in for! But the whole pastwas between them."

"Yes," Isabel mechanically echoed, "the whole past isbetween them."

"Ah, this later past is nothing. But for six or seven years, as Isay, they had kept it up."

She was silent a little. "Why then did she want him to marryme?"

"Ah my dear, that's her superiority! Because you had money;and because she believed you would be good to Pansy."

"Poor woman—and Pansy who doesn't like her!" cried Isabel."That's the reason she wanted some one whom Pansy would

like. She knows it; she knows everything.""Will she know that you've told me this?""That will depend upon whether you tell her. She's prepared

for it, and do you know what she counts upon for her defence?On your believing that I lie. Perhaps you do; don't make your-self uncomfortable to hide it. Only, as it happens this time, Idon't. I've told plenty of little idiotic fibs, but they've never hurtany one but myself."

Isabel sat staring at her companion's story as at a bale offantastic wares some strolling gypsy might have unpacked onthe carpet at her feet. "Why did Osmond never marry her?" shefinally asked.

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"Because she had no money." The Countess had an answerfor everything, and if she lied she lied well. "No one knows, noone has ever known, what she lives on, or how she has got allthose beautiful things. I don't believe Osmond himself knows.Besides, she wouldn't have married him."

"How can she have loved him then?""She doesn't love him in that way. She did at first, and then, I

suppose, she would have married him; but at that time her hus-band was living. By the time M. Merle had rejoined—I won'tsay his ancestors, because he never had any—her relationswith Osmond had changed, and she had grown more ambi-tious. Besides, she has never had, about him," the Countesswent on, leaving Isabel to wince for it so tragically after-wards—"she HAD never had, what you might call any illusionsof INTELLIGENCE. She hoped she might marry a great man;that has always been her idea. She has waited and watchedand plotted and prayed; but she has never succeeded. I don'tcall Madame Merle a success, you know. I don't know what shemay accomplish yet, but at present she has very little to show.The only tangible result she has ever achieved—except, ofcourse, getting to know every one and staying with them freeof expense—has been her bringing you and Osmond together.Oh, she did that, my dear; you needn't look as if you doubted it.I've watched them for years; I know everything—everything.I'm thought a great scatterbrain, but I've had enough applica-tion of mind to follow up those two. She hates me, and her wayof showing it is to pretend to be for ever defending me. Whenpeople say I've had fifteen lovers she looks horrified and de-clares that quite half of them were never proved. She has beenafraid of me for years, and she has taken great comfort in thevile, false things people have said about me. She has beenafraid I'd expose her, and she threatened me one day when Os-mond began to pay his court to you. It was at his house inFlorence; do you remember that afternoon when she broughtyou there and we had tea in the garden? She let me know thenthat if I should tell tales two could play at that game. She pre-tends there's a good deal more to tell about me than about her.It would be an interesting comparison! I don't care a fig whatshe may say, simply because I know YOU don't care a fig. Youcan't trouble your head about me less than you do already. So

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she may take her revenge as she chooses; I don't think she'llfrighten you very much. Her great idea has been to be tre-mendously irreproachable—a kind of full-blown lily—the in-carnation of propriety. She has always worshipped that god.There should be no scandal about Caesar's wife, you know;and, as I say, she has always hoped to marry Caesar. That wasone reason she wouldn't marry Osmond; the fear that on see-ing her with Pansy people would put things together— wouldeven see a resemblance. She has had a terror lest the mothershould betray herself. She has been awfully careful; the motherhas never done so."

"Yes, yes, the mother has done so," said Isabel, who hadlistened to all this with a face more and more wan. "She be-trayed herself to me the other day, though I didn't recogniseher. There appeared to have been a chance of Pansy's makinga great marriage, and in her disappointment at its not comingoff she almost dropped the mask."

"Ah, that's where she'd dish herself!" cried the Countess."She has failed so dreadfully that she's determined her daugh-ter shall make it up."

Isabel started at the words "her daughter," which her guestthrew off so familiarly. "It seems very wonderful," she mur-mured; and in this bewildering impression she had almost losther sense of being personally touched by the story.

"Now don't go and turn against the poor innocent child!" theCountess went on. "She's very nice, in spite of her deplorableorigin. I myself have liked Pansy; not, naturally, because shewas hers, but because she had become yours."

"Yes, she has become mine. And how the poor woman musthave suffered at seeing me—!" Isabel exclaimed while sheflushed at the thought.

"I don't believe she has suffered; on the contrary, she has en-joyed. Osmond's marriage has given his daughter a great littlelift. Before that she lived in a hole. And do you know what themother thought? That you might take such a fancy to the childthat you'd do something for her. Osmond of course could nevergive her a portion. Osmond was really extremely poor; but ofcourse you know all about that. Ah, my dear," cried the Count-ess, "why did you ever inherit money?" She stopped a momentas if she saw something singular in Isabel's face. "Don't tell me

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now that you'll give her a dot. You're capable of that, but Iwould refuse to believe it. Don't try to be too good. Be a littleeasy and natural and nasty; feel a little wicked, for the comfortof it, once in your life!"

"It's very strange. I suppose I ought to know, but I'm sorry,"Isabel said. "I'm much obliged to you."

"Yes, you seem to be!" cried the Countess with a mockinglaugh. "Perhaps you are—perhaps you're not. You don't take itas I should have thought."

"How should I take it?" Isabel asked."Well, I should say as a woman who has been made use of."

Isabel made no answer to this; she only listened, and theCountess went on. "They've always been bound to each other;they remained so even after she broke off—or HE did. But hehas always been more for her than she has been for him. Whentheir little carnival was over they made a bargain that eachshould give the other complete liberty, but that each shouldalso do everything possible to help the other on. You may askme how I know such a thing as that. I know it by the waythey've behaved. Now see how much better women are thanmen! She has found a wife for Osmond, but Osmond has neverlifted a little finger for HER. She has worked for him, plottedfor him, suffered for him; she has even more than once foundmoney for him; and the end of it is that he's tired of her. She'san old habit; there are moments when he needs her, but on thewhole he wouldn't miss her if she were removed. And, what'smore, today she knows it. So you needn't be jealous!" theCountess added humorously.

Isabel rose from her sofa again; she felt bruised and scant ofbreath; her head was humming with new knowledge. "I'mmuch obliged to you," she repeated. And then she added ab-ruptly, in quite a different tone: "How do you know all this?"

This enquiry appeared to ruffle the Countess more thanIsabel's expression of gratitude pleased her. She gave her com-panion a bold stare, with which, "Let us assume that I've inven-ted it!" she cried. She too, however, suddenly changed her toneand, laying her hand on Isabel's arm, said with the penetrationof her sharp bright smile: "Now will you give up your journey?"

Isabel started a little; she turned away. But she felt weak andin a moment had to lay her arm upon the mantel-shelf for

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support. She stood a minute so, and then upon her arm shedropped her dizzy head, with closed eyes and pale lips.

"I've done wrong to speak—I've made you ill!" the Countesscried.

"Ah, I must see Ralph!" Isabel wailed; not in resentment, notin the quick passion her companion had looked for; but in atone of far-reaching, infinite sadness.

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Chapter 52There was a train for Turin and Paris that evening; and afterthe Countess had left her Isabel had a rapid and decisive con-ference with her maid, who was discreet, devoted and active.After this she thought (except of her journey) only of one thing.She must go and see Pansy; from her she couldn't turn away.She had not seen her yet, as Osmond had given her to under-stand that it was too soon to begin. She drove at five o'clock toa high floor in a narrow street in the quarter of the PiazzaNavona, and was admitted by the portress of the convent, agenial and obsequious person. Isabel had been at this institu-tion before; she had come with Pansy to see the sisters. Sheknew they were good women, and she saw that the largerooms were clean and cheerful and that the well-used gardenhad sun for winter and shade for spring. But she disliked theplace, which affronted and almost frightened her; not for theworld would she have spent a night there. It produced to-daymore than before the impression of a well-appointed prison; forit was not possible to pretend Pansy was free to leave it. Thisinnocent creature had been presented to her in a new and viol-ent light, but the secondary effect of the revelation was tomake her reach out a hand.

The portress left her to wait in the parlour of the conventwhile she went to make it known that there was a visitor forthe dear young lady. The parlour was a vast, cold apartment,with new-looking furniture; a large clean stove of white porcel-ain, unlighted, a collection of wax flowers under glass, and aseries of engravings from religious pictures on the walls. Onthe other occasion Isabel had thought it less like Rome thanlike Philadelphia, but to-day she made no reflexions; the apart-ment only seemed to her very empty and very soundless. Theportress returned at the end of some five minutes, ushering inanother person. Isabel got up, expecting to see one of the

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ladies of the sisterhood, but to her extreme surprise found her-self confronted with Madame Merle. The effect was strange,for Madame Merle was already so present to her vision thather appearance in the flesh was like suddenly, and rather aw-fully, seeing a painted picture move. Isabel had been thinkingall day of her falsity, her audacity, her ability, her probable suf-fering; and these dark things seemed to flash with a suddenlight as she entered the room. Her being there at all had thecharacter of ugly evidence, of handwritings, of profaned relics,of grim things produced in court. It made Isabel feel faint; if ithad been necessary to speak on the spot she would have beenquite unable. But no such necessity was distinct to her; itseemed to her indeed that she had absolutely nothing to say toMadame Merle. In one's relations with this lady, however,there were never any absolute necessities; she had a mannerwhich carried off not only her own deficiencies but those ofother people. But she was different from usual; she came inslowly, behind the portress, and Isabel instantly perceived thatshe was not likely to depend upon her habitual resources. Forher too the occasion was exceptional, and she had undertakento treat it by the light of the moment. This gave her a peculiargravity; she pretended not even to smile, and though Isabelsaw that she was more than ever playing a part it seemed toher that on the whole the wonderful woman had never been sonatural. She looked at her young friend from head to foot, butnot harshly nor defiantly; with a cold gentleness rather, and anabsence of any air of allusion to their last meeting. It was as ifshe had wished to mark a distinction. She had been irritatedthen, she was reconciled now.

"You can leave us alone," she said to the portress; "in fiveminutes this lady will ring for you." And then she turned to Isa-bel, who, after noting what has just been mentioned, hadceased to notice and had let her eyes wander as far as the lim-its of the room would allow. She wished never to look at Ma-dame Merle again. "You're surprised to find me here, and I'mafraid you're not pleased," this lady went on. "You don't seewhy I should have come; it's as if I had anticipated you. I con-fess I've been rather indiscreet—I ought to have asked yourpermission." There was none of the oblique movement of ironyin this; it was said simply and mildly; but Isabel, far afloat on a

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sea of wonder and pain, could not have told herself with whatintention it was uttered. "But I've not been sitting long," Ma-dame Merle continued; "that is I've not been long with Pansy. Icame to see her because it occurred to me this afternoon thatshe must be rather lonely and perhaps even a little miserable.It may be good for a small girl; I know so little about smallgirls; I can't tell. At any rate it's a little dismal. Therefore Icame—on the chance. I knew of course that you'd come, andher father as well; still, I had not been told other visitors wereforbidden. The good woman—what's her name? Madame Cath-erine—made no objection whatever. I stayed twenty minuteswith Pansy; she has a charming little room, not in the leastconventual, with a piano and flowers. She has arranged it de-lightfully; she has so much taste. Of course it's all none of mybusiness, but I feel happier since I've seen her. She may evenhave a maid if she likes; but of course she has no occasion todress. She wears a little black frock; she looks so charming. Iwent afterwards to see Mother Catherine, who has a very goodroom too; I assure you I don't find the poor sisters at all mon-astic. Mother Catherine has a most coquettish little toilet-table,with something that looked uncommonly like a bottle of eau-de-Cologne. She speaks delightfully of Pansy; says it's a great hap-piness for them to have her. She's a little saint of heaven and amodel to the oldest of them. Just as I was leaving MadameCatherine the portress came to say to her that there was a ladyfor the signorina. Of course I knew it must be you, and I askedher to let me go and receive you in her place. She demurredgreatly—I must tell you that—and said it was her duty to notifythe Mother Superior; it was of such high importance that youshould be treated with respect. I requested her to let the Moth-er Superior alone and asked her how she supposed I wouldtreat you!"

So Madame Merle went on, with much of the brilliancy of awoman who had long been a mistress of the art of conversa-tion. But there were phases and gradations in her speech, notone of which was lost upon Isabel's ear, though her eyes wereabsent from her companion's face. She had not proceeded farbefore Isabel noted a sudden break in her voice, a lapse in hercontinuity, which was in itself a complete drama. This subtlemodulation marked a momentous discovery—the perception of

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an entirely new attitude on the part of her listener. MadameMerle had guessed in the space of an instant that everythingwas at end between them, and in the space of another instantshe had guessed the reason why. The person who stood therewas not the same one she had seen hitherto, but was a very dif-ferent person—a person who knew her secret. This discoverywas tremendous, and from the moment she made it the mostaccomplished of women faltered and lost her courage. But onlyfor that moment. Then the conscious stream of her perfectmanner gathered itself again and flowed on as smoothly asmight be to the end. But it was only because she had the end inview that she was able to proceed. She had been touched witha point that made her quiver, and she needed all the alertnessof her will to repress her agitation. Her only safety was in hernot betraying herself. She resisted this, but the startled qualityof her voice refused to improve—she couldn't help it—whileshe heard herself say she hardly knew what. The tide of herconfidence ebbed, and she was able only just to glide into port,faintly grazing the bottom.

Isabel saw it all as distinctly as if it had been reflected in alarge clear glass. It might have been a great moment for her,for it might have been a moment of triumph. That MadameMerle had lost her pluck and saw before her the phantom ofexposure—this in itself was a revenge, this in itself was almostthe promise of a brighter day. And for a moment during whichshe stood apparently looking out of the window, with her backhalf-turned, Isabel enjoyed that knowledge. On the other sideof the window lay the garden of the convent; but this is notwhat she saw; she saw nothing of the budding plants and theglowing afternoon. She saw, in the crude light of that revela-tion which had already become a part of experience and towhich the very frailty of the vessel in which it had been offeredher only gave an intrinsic price, the dry staring fact that shehad been an applied handled hung-up tool, as senseless andconvenient as mere shaped wood and iron. All the bitterness ofthis knowledge surged into her soul again; it was as if she felton her lips the taste of dishonour. There was a moment duringwhich, if she had turned and spoken, she would have saidsomething that would hiss like a lash. But she closed her eyes,and then the hideous vision dropped. What remained was the

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cleverest woman in the world standing there within a few feetof her and knowing as little what to think as the meanest.Isabel's only revenge was to be silent still—to leave MadameMerle in this unprecedented situation. She left her there for aperiod that must have seemed long to this lady, who at lastseated herself with a movement which was in itself a confes-sion of helplessness. Then Isabel turned slow eyes, lookingdown at her. Madame Merle was very pale; her own eyescovered Isabel's face. She might see what she would, but herdanger was over. Isabel would never accuse her, never re-proach her; perhaps because she never would give her the op-portunity to defend herself.

"I'm come to bid Pansy good-bye," our young woman said atlast. "I go to England to-night."

"Go to England to-night!" Madame Merle repeated sittingthere and looking up at her.

"I'm going to Gardencourt. Ralph Touchett's dying.""Ah, you'll feel that." Madame Merle recovered herself; she

had a chance to express sympathy. "Do you go alone?""Yes; without my husband."Madame Merle gave a low vague murmur; a sort of recogni-

tion of the general sadness of things. "Mr. Touchett never likedme, but I'm sorry he's dying. Shall you see his mother?"

"Yes; she has returned from America.""She used to be very kind to me; but she has changed. Others

too have changed," said Madame Merle with a quiet noblepathos. She paused a moment, then added: "And you'll seedear old Gardencourt again!"

"I shall not enjoy it much," Isabel answered."Naturally—in your grief. But it's on the whole, of all the

houses I know, and I know many, the one I should have likedbest to live in. I don't venture to send a message to thepeople," Madame Merle added; "but I should like to give mylove to the place."

Isabel turned away. "I had better go to Pansy. I've not muchtime."

While she looked about her for the proper egress, the dooropened and admitted one of the ladies of the house, who ad-vanced with a discreet smile, gently rubbing, under her longloose sleeves, a pair of plump white hands. Isabel recognised

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Madame Catherine, whose acquaintance she had alreadymade, and begged that she would immediately let her see MissOsmond. Madame Catherine looked doubly discreet, but smiledvery blandly and said: "It will be good for her to see you. I'lltake you to her myself." Then she directed her pleased guardedvision to Madame Merle.

"Will you let me remain a little?" this lady asked. "It's so goodto be here."

"You may remain always if you like!" And the good sistergave a knowing laugh.

She led Isabel out of the room, through several corridors,and up a long staircase. All these departments were solid andbare, light and clean; so, thought Isabel, are the great penalestablishments. Madame Catherine gently pushed open thedoor of Pansy's room and ushered in the visitor; then stoodsmiling with folded hands while the two others met andembraced.

"She's glad to see you," she repeated; "it will do her good."And she placed the best chair carefully for Isabel. But shemade no movement to seat herself; she seemed ready to retire."How does this dear child look?" she asked of Isabel, lingeringa moment.

"She looks pale," Isabel answered."That's the pleasure of seeing you. She's very happy. Elle

eclaire la maison," said the good sister.Pansy wore, as Madame Merle had said, a little black dress;

it was perhaps this that made her look pale. "They're very goodto me—they think of everything!" she exclaimed with all hercustomary eagerness to accommodate.

"We think of you always—you're a precious charge," MadameCatherine remarked in the tone of a woman with whom bene-volence was a habit and whose conception of duty was the ac-ceptance of every care. It fell with a leaden weight on Isabel'sears; it seemed to represent the surrender of a personality, theauthority of the Church.

When Madame Catherine had left them together Pansykneeled down and hid her head in her stepmother's lap. So sheremained some moments, while Isabel gently stroked her hair.Then she got up, averting her face and looking about the room.

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"Don't you think I've arranged it well? I've everything I have athome."

"It's very pretty; you're very comfortable." Isabel scarcelyknew what she could say to her. On the one hand she couldn'tlet her think she had come to pity her, and on the other itwould be a dull mockery to pretend to rejoice with her. So shesimply added after a moment: "I've come to bid you good-bye.I'm going to England."

Pansy's white little face turned red. "To England! Not tocome back?"

"I don't know when I shall come back.""Ah, I'm sorry," Pansy breathed with faintness. She spoke as

if she had no right to criticise; but her tone expressed a depthof disappointment.

"My cousin, Mr. Touchett, is very ill; he'll probably die. I wishto see him," Isabel said.

"Ah yes; you told me he would die. Of course you must go.And will papa go?"

"No; I shall go alone."For a moment the girl said nothing. Isabel had often

wondered what she thought of the apparent relations of herfather with his wife; but never by a glance, by an intimation,had she let it be seen that she deemed them deficient in an airof intimacy. She made her reflexions, Isabel was sure; and shemust have had a conviction that there were husbands andwives who were more intimate than that. But Pansy was not in-discreet even in thought; she would as little have ventured tojudge her gentle stepmother as to criticise her magnificentfather. Her heart may have stood almost as still as it wouldhave done had she seen two of the saints in the great picture inthe convent chapel turn their painted heads and shake them ateach other. But as in this latter case she would (for verysolemnity's sake) never have mentioned the awful phenomen-on, so she put away all knowledge of the secrets of larger livesthan her own. "You'll be very far away," she presently went on.

"Yes; I shall be far away. But it will scarcely matter," Isabelexplained; "since so long as you're here I can't be called nearyou."

"Yes, but you can come and see me; though you've not comevery often."

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"I've not come because your father forbade it. To-day I bringnothing with me. I can't amuse you."

"I'm not to be amused. That's not what papa wishes.""Then it hardly matters whether I'm in Rome or in England.""You're not happy, Mrs. Osmond," said Pansy."Not very. But it doesn't matter.""That's what I say to myself. What does it matter? But I

should like to come out.""I wish indeed you might.""Don't leave me here," Pansy went on gently.Isabel said nothing for a minute; her heart beat fast. "Will

you come away with me now?" she asked.Pansy looked at her pleadingly. "Did papa tell you to bring

me?""No; it's my own proposal.""I think I had better wait then. Did papa send me no

message?""I don't think he knew I was coming.""He thinks I've not had enough," said Pansy. "But I have. The

ladies are very kind to me and the little girls come to see me.There are some very little ones—such charming children. Thenmy room—you can see for yourself. All that's very delightful.But I've had enough. Papa wished me to think a little—and I'vethought a great deal."

"What have you thought?""Well, that I must never displease papa.""You knew that before.""Yes; but I know it better. I'll do anything—I'll do anything,"

said Pansy. Then, as she heard her own words, a deep, pureblush came into her face. Isabel read the meaning of it; shesaw the poor girl had been vanquished. It was well that Mr. Ed-ward Rosier had kept his enamels! Isabel looked into her eyesand saw there mainly a prayer to be treated easily. She laid herhand on Pansy's as if to let her know that her look conveyed nodiminution of esteem; for the collapse of the girl's momentaryresistance (mute and modest thought it had been) seemed onlyher tribute to the truth of things. She didn't presume to judgeothers, but she had judged herself; she had seen the reality.She had no vocation for struggling with combinations; in thesolemnity of sequestration there was something that

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overwhelmed her. She bowed her pretty head to authority andonly asked of authority to be merciful. Yes; it was very wellthat Edward Rosier had reserved a few articles!

Isabel got up; her time was rapidly shortening. "Good-byethen. I leave Rome to-night."

Pansy took hold of her dress; there was a sudden change inthe child's face. "You look strange, you frighten me."

"Oh, I'm very harmless," said Isabel."Perhaps you won't come back?""Perhaps not. I can't tell.""Ah, Mrs. Osmond, you won't leave me!"Isabel now saw she had guessed everything. "My dear child,

what can I do for you?" she asked."I don't know—but I'm happier when I think of you.""You can always think of me.""Not when you're so far. I'm a little afraid," said Pansy."What are you afraid of?""Of papa—a little. And of Madame Merle. She has just been

to see me.""You must not say that," Isabel observed."Oh, I'll do everything they want. Only if you're here I shall

do it more easily."Isabel considered. "I won't desert you," she said at last.

"Good-bye, my child."Then they held each other a moment in a silent embrace, like

two sisters; and afterwards Pansy walked along the corridorwith her visitor to the top of the staircase. "Madame Merle hasbeen here," she remarked as they went; and as Isabelanswered nothing she added abruptly: "I don't like MadameMerle!"

Isabel hesitated, then stopped. "You must never saythat—that you don't like Madame Merle."

Pansy looked at her in wonder; but wonder with Pansy hadnever been a reason for non-compliance. "I never will again,"she said with exquisite gentleness. At the top of the staircasethey had to separate, as it appeared to be part of the mild butvery definite discipline under which Pansy lived that sheshould not go down. Isabel descended, and when she reachedthe bottom the girl was standing above. "You'll come back?"she called out in a voice that Isabel remembered afterwards.

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"Yes—I'll come back."Madame Catherine met Mrs. Osmond below and conducted

her to the door of the parlour, outside of which the two stoodtalking a minute. "I won't go in," said the good sister. "MadameMerle's waiting for you."

At this announcement Isabel stiffened; she was on the pointof asking if there were no other egress from the convent. But amoment's reflexion assured her that she would do well not tobetray to the worthy nun her desire to avoid Pansy's otherfriend. Her companion grasped her arm very gently and, fixingher a moment with wise, benevolent eyes, said in French andalmost familiarly: "Eh bien, chere Madame, qu'en pensez-vous?"

"About my step-daughter? Oh, it would take long to tell you.""We think it's enough," Madame Catherine distinctly ob-

served. And she pushed open the door of the parlour.Madame Merle was sitting just as Isabel had left her, like a

woman so absorbed in thought that she had not moved a littlefinger. As Madame Catherine closed the door she got up, andIsabel saw that she had been thinking to some purpose. Shehad recovered her balance; she was in full possession of her re-sources. "I found I wished to wait for you," she said urbanely."But it's not to talk about Pansy."

Isabel wondered what it could be to talk about, and in spiteof Madame Merle's declaration she answered after a moment:"Madame Catherine says it's enough."

"Yes; it also seems to me enough. I wanted to ask you anoth-er word about poor Mr. Touchett," Madame Merle added."Have you reason to believe that he's really at his last?"

"I've no information but a telegram. Unfortunately it onlyconfirms a probability."

"I'm going to ask you a strange question," said MadameMerle. "Are you very fond of your cousin?" And she gave asmile as strange as her utterance.

"Yes, I'm very fond of him. But I don't understand you."She just hung fire. "It's rather hard to explain. Something

has occurred to me which may not have occurred to you, and Igive you the benefit of my idea. Your cousin did you once agreat service. Have you never guessed it?"

"He has done me many services."

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"Yes; but one was much above the rest. He made you a richwoman."

"HE made me—?"Madame Merle appearing to see herself successful, she went

on more triumphantly: "He imparted to you that extra lustrewhich was required to make you a brilliant match. At bottomit's him you've to thank." She stopped; there was something inIsabel's eyes.

"I don't understand you. It was my uncle's money.""Yes; it was your uncle's money, but it was your cousin's

idea. He brought his father over to it. Ah, my dear, the sumwas large!"

Isabel stood staring; she seemed to-day to live in a world il-lumined by lurid flashes. "I don't know why you say suchthings. I don't know what you know."

"I know nothing but what I've guessed. But I've guessedthat."

Isabel went to the door and, when she had opened it, stood amoment with her hand on the latch. Then she said—it was heronly revenge: "I believed it was you I had to thank!"

Madame Merle dropped her eyes; she stood there in a kindof proud penance. "You're very unhappy, I know. But I'm moreso."

"Yes; I can believe that. I think I should like never to see youagain."

Madame Merle raised her eyes. "I shall go to America," shequietly remarked while Isabel passed out.

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Chapter 53It was not with surprise, it was with a feeling which in othercircumstances would have had much of the effect of joy, that asIsabel descended from the Paris Mail at Charing Cross shestepped into the arms, as it were—or at any rate into thehands—of Henrietta Stackpole. She had telegraphed to herfriend from Turin, and though she had not definitely said toherself that Henrietta would meet her, she had felt her tele-gram would produce some helpful result. On her long journeyfrom Rome her mind had been given up to vagueness; she wasunable to question the future. She performed this journey withsightless eyes and took little pleasure in the countries she tra-versed, decked out though they were in the richest freshness ofspring. Her thoughts followed their course through othercountries—strange-looking, dimly-lighted, pathless lands, inwhich there was no change of seasons, but only, as it seemed,a perpetual dreariness of winter. She had plenty to thinkabout; but it was neither reflexion nor conscious purpose thatfilled her mind. Disconnected visions passed through it, andsudden dull gleams of memory, of expectation. The past andthe future came and went at their will, but she saw them onlyin fitful images, which rose and fell by a logic of their own. Itwas extraordinary the things she remembered. Now that shewas in the secret, now that she knew something that so muchconcerned her and the eclipse of which had made life resemblean attempt to play whist with an imperfect pack of cards, thetruth of things, their mutual relations, their meaning, and forthe most part their horror, rose before her with a kind of archi-tectural vastness. She remembered a thousand trifles; theystarted to life with the spontaneity of a shiver. She had thoughtthem trifles at the time; now she saw that they had beenweighted with lead. Yet even now they were trifles after all, forof what use was it to her to understand them? Nothing seemed

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of use to her to-day. All purpose, all intention, was suspended;all desire too save the single desire to reach her much-embra-cing refuge. Gardencourt had been her starting-point, and tothose muffled chambers it was at least a temporary solution toreturn. She had gone forth in her strength; she would comeback in her weakness, and if the place had been a rest to herbefore, it would be a sanctuary now. She envied Ralph his dy-ing, for if one were thinking of rest that was the most perfectof all. To cease utterly, to give it all up and not know anythingmore—this idea was as sweet as the vision of a cool bath in amarble tank, in a darkened chamber, in a hot land.

She had moments indeed in her journey from Rome whichwere almost as good as being dead. She sat in her corner, somotionless, so passive, simply with the sense of being carried,so detached from hope and regret, that she recalled to herselfone of those Etruscan figures couched upon the receptacle oftheir ashes. There was nothing to regret now—that was allover. Not only the time of her folly, but the time of her repent-ance was far. The only thing to regret was that Madame Merlehad been so—well, so unimaginable. Just here her intelligencedropped, from literal inability to say what it was that MadameMerle had been. Whatever it was it was for Madame Merle her-self to regret it; and doubtless she would do so in America,where she had announced she was going. It concerned Isabelno more; she only had an impression that she should neveragain see Madame Merle. This impression carried her into thefuture, of which from time to time she had a mutilated glimpse.She saw herself, in the distant years, still in the attitude of awoman who had her life to live, and these intimations contra-dicted the spirit of the present hour. It might be desirable toget quite away, really away, further away than little grey-greenEngland, but this privilege was evidently to be denied her.Deep in her soul—deeper than any appetite for renunci-ation—was the sense that life would be her business for a longtime to come. And at moments there was something inspiring,almost enlivening, in the conviction. It was a proof ofstrength—it was a proof she should some day be happy again.It couldn't be she was to live only to suffer; she was still young,after all, and a great many things might happen to her yet. Tolive only to suffer—only to feel the injury of life repeated and

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enlarged—it seemed to her she was too valuable, too capable,for that. Then she wondered if it were vain and stupid to thinkso well of herself. When had it even been a guarantee to bevaluable? Wasn't all history full of the destruction of preciousthings? Wasn't it much more probable that if one were fine onewould suffer? It involved then perhaps an admission that onehad a certain grossness; but Isabel recognised, as it passed be-fore her eyes, the quick vague shadow of a long future. Sheshould never escape; she should last to the end. Then themiddle years wrapped her about again and the grey curtain ofher indifference closed her in.

Henrietta kissed her, as Henrietta usually kissed, as if shewere afraid she should be caught doing it; and then Isabelstood there in the crowd, looking about her, looking for herservant. She asked nothing; she wished to wait. She had a sud-den perception that she should be helped. She rejoiced Henri-etta had come; there was something terrible in an arrival inLondon. The dusky, smoky, far-arching vault of the station, thestrange, livid light, the dense, dark, pushing crowd, filled herwith a nervous fear and made her put her arm into her friend's.She remembered she had once liked these things; they seemedpart of a mighty spectacle in which there was something thattouched her. She remembered how she walked away from Eus-ton, in the winter dusk, in the crowded streets, five years be-fore. She could not have done that to-day, and the incidentcame before her as the deed of another person.

"It's too beautiful that you should have come," said Henri-etta, looking at her as if she thought Isabel might be preparedto challenge the proposition. "If you hadn't—if you hadn't; well,I don't know," remarked Miss Stackpole, hinting ominously ather powers of disapproval.

Isabel looked about without seeing her maid. Her eyes restedon another figure, however, which she felt she had seen be-fore; and in a moment she recognised the genial countenanceof Mr. Bantling. He stood a little apart, and it was not in thepower of the multitude that pressed about him to make himyield an inch of the ground he had taken—that of abstractinghimself discreetly while the two ladies performed theirembraces.

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"There's Mr. Bantling," said Isabel, gently, irrelevantly,scarcely caring much now whether she should find her maid ornot.

"Oh yes, he goes everywhere with me. Come here, Mr. Bant-ling!" Henrietta exclaimed. Whereupon the gallant bachelor ad-vanced with a smile—a smile tempered, however, by the grav-ity of the occasion. "Isn't it lovely she has come?" Henriettaasked. "He knows all about it," she added; "we had quite a dis-cussion. He said you wouldn't, I said you would."

"I thought you always agreed," Isabel smiled in return. Shefelt she could smile now; she had seen in an instant, in Mr.Bantling's brave eyes, that he had good news for her. Theyseemed to say he wished her to remember he was an old friendof her cousin—that he understood, that it was all right. Isabelgave him her hand; she thought of him, extravagantly, as abeautiful blameless knight.

"Oh, I always agree," said Mr. Bantling. "But she doesn't, youknow."

"Didn't I tell you that a maid was a nuisance?" Henrietta en-quired. "Your young lady has probably remained at Calais."

"I don't care," said Isabel, looking at Mr. Bantling, whom shehad never found so interesting.

"Stay with her while I go and see," Henrietta commanded,leaving the two for a moment together.

They stood there at first in silence, and then Mr. Bantlingasked Isabel how it had been on the Channel.

"Very fine. No, I believe it was very rough," she said, to hercompanion's obvious surprise. After which she added: "You'vebeen to Gardencourt, I know."

"Now how do you know that?""I can't tell you—except that you look like a person who has

been to Gardencourt.""Do you think I look awfully sad? It's awfully sad there, you

know.""I don't believe you ever look awfully sad. You look awfully

kind," said Isabel with a breadth that cost her no effort. Itseemed to her she should never again feel a superficialembarrassment.

Poor Mr. Bantling, however, was still in this inferior stage.He blushed a good deal and laughed, he assured her that he

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was often very blue, and that when he was blue he was awfullyfierce. "You can ask Miss Stackpole, you know. I was atGardencourt two days ago."

"Did you see my cousin?""Only for a little. But he had been seeing people; Warburton

had been there the day before. Ralph was just the same as usu-al, except that he was in bed and that he looks tremendously illand that he can't speak," Mr. Bantling pursued. "He was aw-fully jolly and funny all the same. He was just as clever as ever.It's awfully wretched."

Even in the crowded, noisy station this simple picture wasvivid. "Was that late in the day?"

"Yes; I went on purpose. We thought you'd like to know.""I'm greatly obliged to you. Can I go down tonight?""Ah, I don't think SHE'LL let you go," said Mr. Bantling. "She

wants you to stop with her. I made Touchett's man promise totelegraph me to-day, and I found the telegram an hour ago atmy club. 'Quiet and easy,' that's what it says, and it's dated twoo'clock. So you see you can wait till to-morrow. You must beawfully tired."

"Yes, I'm awfully tired. And I thank you again.""Oh," said Mr. Bantling, "We were certain you would like the

last news." On which Isabel vaguely noted that he and Henri-etta seemed after all to agree. Miss Stackpole came back withIsabel's maid, whom she had caught in the act of proving herutility. This excellent person, instead of losing herself in thecrowd, had simply attended to her mistress's luggage, so thatthe latter was now at liberty to leave the station. "You knowyou're not to think of going to the country to-night," Henriettaremarked to her. "It doesn't matter whether there's a train ornot. You're to come straight to me in Wimpole Street. Thereisn't a corner to be had in London, but I've got you one all thesame. It isn't a Roman palace, but it will do for a night."

"I'll do whatever you wish," Isabel said."You'll come and answer a few questions; that's what I wish.""She doesn't say anything about dinner, does she, Mrs. Os-

mond?" Mr. Bantling enquired jocosely.Henrietta fixed him a moment with her speculative gaze. "I

see you're in a great hurry to get your own. You'll be at thePaddington Station to-morrow morning at ten."

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"Don't come for my sake, Mr. Bantling," said Isabel."He'll come for mine," Henrietta declared as she ushered her

friend into a cab. And later, in a large dusky parlour in Wim-pole Street—to do her justice there had been dinnerenough—she asked those questions to which she had alluded atthe station. "Did your husband make you a scene about yourcoming?" That was Miss Stackpole's first enquiry.

"No; I can't say he made a scene.""He didn't object then?""Yes, he objected very much. But it was not what you'd call a

scene.""What was it then?""It was a very quiet conversation."Henrietta for a moment regarded her guest. "It must have

been hellish," she then remarked. And Isabel didn't deny that ithad been hellish. But she confined herself to answeringHenrietta's questions, which was easy, as they were tolerablydefinite. For the present she offered her no new information."Well," said Miss Stackpole at last, "I've only one criticism tomake. I don't see why you promised little Miss Osmond to goback."

"I'm not sure I myself see now," Isabel replied. "But I didthen."

"If you've forgotten your reason perhaps you won't return."Isabel waited a moment. "Perhaps I shall find another.""You'll certainly never find a good one.""In default of a better my having promised will do," Isabel

suggested."Yes; that's why I hate it.""Don't speak of it now. I've a little time. Coming away was a

complication, but what will going back be?""You must remember, after all, that he won't make you a

scene!" said Henrietta with much intention."He will, though," Isabel answered gravely. "It won't be the

scene of a moment; it will be a scene of the rest of my life."For some minutes the two women sat and considered this re-

mainder, and then Miss Stackpole, to change the subject, asIsabel had requested, announced abruptly: "I've been to staywith Lady Pensil!"

"Ah, the invitation came at last!"

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"Yes; it took five years. But this time she wanted to see me.""Naturally enough.""It was more natural than I think you know," said Henrietta,

who fixed her eyes on a distant point. And then she added,turning suddenly: "Isabel Archer, I beg your pardon. You don'tknow why? Because I criticised you, and yet I've gone furtherthan you. Mr. Osmond, at least, was born on the other side!"

It was a moment before Isabel grasped her meaning; thissense was so modestly, or at least so ingeniously, veiled.Isabel's mind was not possessed at present with the comicalityof things; but she greeted with a quick laugh the image thather companion had raised. She immediately recovered herself,however, and with the right excess of intensity, "HenriettaStackpole," she asked, "are you going to give up your country?"

"Yes, my poor Isabel, I am. I won't pretend to deny it; I lookthe fact: in the face. I'm going to marry Mr. Bantling and locateright here in London."

"It seems very strange," said Isabel, smiling now."Well yes, I suppose it does. I've come to it little by little. I

think I know what I'm doing; but I don't know as I can explain.""One can't explain one's marriage," Isabel answered. "And

yours doesn't need to be explained. Mr. Bantling isn't a riddle.""No, he isn't a bad pun—or even a high flight of American hu-

mour. He has a beautiful nature," Henrietta went on. "I'vestudied him for many years and I see right through him. He'sas clear as the style of a good prospectus. He's not intellectual,but he appreciates intellect. On the other hand he doesn't ex-aggerate its claims. I sometimes think we do in the UnitedStates."

"Ah," said Isabel, "you're changed indeed! It's the first timeI've ever heard you say anything against your native land."

"I only say that we're too infatuated with mere brain-power;that, after all, isn't a vulgar fault. But I AM changed; a womanhas to change a good deal to marry."

"I hope you'll be very happy. You will at last—over here—seesomething of the inner life."

Henrietta gave a little significant sigh. "That's the key to themystery, I believe. I couldn't endure to be kept off. Now I've asgood a right as any one!" she added with artless elation. Isabelwas duly diverted, but there was a certain melancholy in her

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view. Henrietta, after all, had confessed herself human andfeminine, Henrietta whom she had hitherto regarded as a lightkeen flame, a disembodied voice. It was a disappointment tofind she had personal susceptibilities, that she was subject tocommon passions, and that her intimacy with Mr. Bantling hadnot been completely original. There was a want of originality inher marrying him—there was even a kind of stupidity; and for amoment, to Isabel's sense, the dreariness of the world took ona deeper tinge. A little later indeed she reflected that Mr. Bant-ling himself at least was original. But she didn't see how Henri-etta could give up her country. She herself had relaxed herhold of it, but it had never been her country as it had beenHenrietta's. She presently asked her if she had enjoyed her vis-it to Lady Pensil.

"Oh yes," said Henrietta, "she didn't know what to make ofme."

"And was that very enjoyable?""Very much so, because she's supposed to be a master mind.

She thinks she knows everything; but she doesn't understand awoman of my modern type. It would be so much easier for herif I were only a little better or a little worse. She's so puzzled; Ibelieve she thinks it's my duty to go and do something immor-al. She thinks it's immoral that I should marry her brother; but,after all, that isn't immoral enough. And she'll never under-stand my mixture—never!"

"She's not so intelligent as her brother then," said Isabel. "Heappears to have understood."

"Oh no, he hasn't!" cried Miss Stackpole with decision. "Ireally believe that's what he wants to marry me for—just tofind out the mystery and the proportions of it. That's a fixedidea—a kind of fascination."

"It's very good in you to humour it.""Oh well," said Henrietta, "I've something to find out too!"

And Isabel saw that she had not renounced an allegiance, butplanned an attack. She was at last about to grapple in earnestwith England.

Isabel also perceived, however, on the morrow, at the Pad-dington Station, where she found herself, at ten o'clock, in thecompany both of Miss Stackpole and Mr. Bantling, that thegentleman bore his perplexities lightly. If he had not found out

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everything he had found out at least the great point—that MissStackpole would not be wanting in initiative. It was evidentthat in the selection of a wife he had been on his guard againstthis deficiency.

"Henrietta has told me, and I'm very glad," Isabel said as shegave him her hand.

"I dare say you think it awfully odd," Mr. Bantling replied,resting on his neat umbrella.

"Yes, I think it awfully odd.""You can't think it so awfully odd as I do. But I've always

rather liked striking out a line," said Mr. Bantling serenely.

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Chapter 54Isabel's arrival at Gardencourt on this second occasion waseven quieter than it had been on the first. Ralph Touchett keptbut a small household, and to the new servants Mrs. Osmondwas a stranger; so that instead of being conducted to her ownapartment she was coldly shown into the drawing-room andleft to wait while her name was carried up to her aunt. Shewaited a long time; Mrs. Touchett appeared in no hurry tocome to her. She grew impatient at last; she grew nervous andscared—as scared as if the objects about her had begun toshow for conscious things, watching her trouble with grot-esque grimaces. The day was dark and cold; the dusk was thickin the corners of the wide brown rooms. The house was per-fectly still—with a stillness that Isabel remembered; it hadfilled all the place for days before the death of her uncle. Sheleft the drawing-room and wandered about—strolled into thelibrary and along the gallery of pictures, where, in the deep si-lence, her footstep made an echo. Nothing was changed; sherecognised everything she had seen years before; it might havebeen only yesterday she had stood there. She envied the secur-ity of valuable "pieces" which change by no hair's breadth, onlygrow in value, while their owners lose inch by inch youth, hap-piness, beauty; and she became aware that she was walkingabout as her aunt had done on the day she had come to see herin Albany. She was changed enough since then—that had beenthe beginning. It suddenly struck her that if her Aunt Lydia hadnot come that day in just that way and found her alone,everything might have been different. She might have had an-other life and she might have been a woman more blest. Shestopped in the gallery in front of a small picture—a charmingand precious Bonington—upon which her eyes rested a longtime. But she was not looking at the picture; she was

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wondering whether if her aunt had not come that day in Albanyshe would have married Caspar Goodwood.

Mrs. Touchett appeared at last, just after Isabel had returnedto the big uninhabited drawing-room. She looked a good dealolder, but her eye was as bright as ever and her head as erect;her thin lips seemed a repository of latent meanings. She worea little grey dress of the most undecorated fashion, and Isabelwondered, as she had wondered the first time, if her remark-able kinswoman resembled more a queen-regent or the matronof a gaol. Her lips felt very thin indeed on Isabel's hot cheek.

"I've kept you waiting because I've been sitting with Ralph,"Mrs. Touchett said. "The nurse had gone to luncheon and I hadtaken her place. He has a man who's supposed to look afterhim, but the man's good for nothing; he's always looking out ofthe window—as if there were anything to see! I didn't wish tomove, because Ralph seemed to be sleeping and I was afraidthe sound would disturb him. I waited till the nurse came back.I remembered you knew the house."

"I find I know it better even than I thought; I've been walkingeverywhere," Isabel answered. And then she asked if Ralphslept much.

"He lies with his eyes closed; he doesn't move. But I'm notsure that it's always sleep."

"Will he see me? Can he speak to me?"Mrs. Touchett declined the office of saying. "You can try

him," was the limit of her extravagance. And then she offeredto conduct Isabel to her room. "I thought they had taken youthere; but it's not my house, it's Ralph's; and I don't know whatthey do. They must at least have taken your luggage; I don'tsuppose you've brought much. Not that I care, however. I be-lieve they've given you the same room you had before; whenRalph heard you were coming he said you must have that one."

"Did he say anything else?""Ah, my dear, he doesn't chatter as he used!" cried Mrs.

Touchett as she preceded her niece up the staircase.It was the same room, and something told Isabel it had not

been slept in since she occupied it. Her luggage was there andwas not voluminous; Mrs. Touchett sat down a moment withher eyes upon it. "Is there really no hope?" our young womanasked as she stood before her.

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"None whatever. There never has been. It has not been asuccessful life."

"No—it has only been a beautiful one." Isabel found herselfalready contradicting her aunt; she was irritated by herdryness.

"I don't know what you mean by that; there's no beautywithout health. That is a very odd dress to travel in."

Isabel glanced at her garment. "I left Rome at an hour's no-tice; I took the first that came."

"Your sisters, in America, wished to know how you dress.That seemed to be their principal interest. I wasn't able to tellthem —but they seemed to have the right idea: that you neverwear anything less than black brocade."

"They think I'm more brilliant than I am; I'm afraid to tellthem the truth," said Isabel. "Lily wrote me you had dined withher."

"She invited me four times, and I went once. After the secondtime she should have let me alone. The dinner was very good;it must have been expensive. Her husband has a very bad man-ner. Did I enjoy my visit to America? Why should I have en-joyed it? I didn't go for my pleasure."

These were interesting items, but Mrs. Touchett soon left herniece, whom she was to meet in half an hour at the middaymeal. For this repast the two ladies faced each other at an ab-breviated table in the melancholy dining-room. Here, after alittle, Isabel saw her aunt not to be so dry as she appeared, andher old pity for the poor woman's inexpressiveness, her want ofregret, of disappointment, came back to her. Unmistakeablyshe would have found it a blessing to-day to be able to feel adefeat, a mistake, even a shame or two. She wondered if shewere not even missing those enrichments of consciousness andprivately trying— reaching out for some aftertaste of life, dregsof the banquet; the testimony of pain or the cold recreation ofremorse. On the other hand perhaps she was afraid; if sheshould begin to know remorse at all it might take her too far.Isabel could perceive, however, how it had come over herdimly that she had failed of something, that she saw herself inthe future as an old woman without memories. Her little sharpface looked tragical. She told her niece that Ralph had as yetnot moved, but that he probably would be able to see her

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before dinner. And then in a moment she added that he hadseen Lord Warburton the day before; an announcement whichstartled Isabel a little, as it seemed an intimation that this per-sonage was in the neighbourhood and that an accident mightbring them together. Such an accident would not be happy; shehad not come to England to struggle again with Lord Warbur-ton. She none the less presently said to her aunt that he hadbeen very kind to Ralph; she had seen something of that inRome.

"He has something else to think of now," Mrs. Touchett re-turned. And she paused with a gaze like a gimlet.

Isabel saw she meant something, and instantly guessed whatshe meant. But her reply concealed her guess; her heart beatfaster and she wished to gain a moment. "Ah yes—the House ofLords and all that."

"He's not thinking of the Lords; he's thinking of the ladies. Atleast he's thinking of one of them; he told Ralph he's engagedto be married."

"Ah, to be married!" Isabel mildly exclaimed."Unless he breaks it off. He seemed to think Ralph would like

to know. Poor Ralph can't go to the wedding, though I believeit's to take place very soon.

"And who's the young lady?""A member of the aristocracy; Lady Flora, Lady Felicia—

something of that sort.""I'm very glad," Isabel said. "It must be a sudden decision.""Sudden enough, I believe; a courtship of three weeks. It has

only just been made public.""I'm very glad," Isabel repeated with a larger emphasis. She

knew her aunt was watching her—looking for the signs of someimputed soreness, and the desire to prevent her companionfrom seeing anything of this kind enabled her to speak in thetone of quick satisfaction, the tone almost of relief. Mrs.Touchett of course followed the tradition that ladies, even mar-ried ones, regard the marriage of their old lovers as an offenceto themselves. Isabel's first care therefore was to show thathowever that might be in general she was not offended now.But meanwhile, as I say, her heart beat faster; and if she satfor some moments thoughtful —she presently forgot Mrs.Touchett's observation—it was not because she had lost an

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admirer. Her imagination had traversed half Europe; it halted,panting, and even trembling a little, in the city of Rome. Shefigured herself announcing to her husband that Lord Warbur-ton was to lead a bride to the altar, and she was of course notaware how extremely wan she must have looked while shemade this intellectual effort. But at last she collected herselfand said to her aunt: "He was sure to do it some time or other."

Mrs. Touchett was silent; then she gave a sharp little shakeof the head. "Ah, my dear, you're beyond me!" she cried sud-denly. They went on with their luncheon in silence; Isabel feltas if she had heard of Lord Warburton's death. She had knownhim only as a suitor, and now that was all over. He was deadfor poor Pansy; by Pansy he might have lived. A servant hadbeen hovering about; at last Mrs. Touchett requested him toleave them alone. She had finished her meal; she sat with herhands folded on the edge of the table. "I should like to ask youthree questions," she observed when the servant had gone.

"Three are a great many.""I can't do with less; I've been thinking. They're all very good

ones.""That's what I'm afraid of. The best questions are the worst,"

Isabel answered. Mrs. Touchett had pushed back her chair,and as her niece left the table and walked, rather consciously,to one of the deep windows, she felt herself followed by hereyes.

"Have you ever been sorry you didn't marry Lord Warbur-ton?" Mrs. Touchett enquired.

Isabel shook her head slowly, but not heavily. "No, dearaunt."

"Good. I ought to tell you that I propose to believe what yousay."

"Your believing me's an immense temptation," she declared,smiling still.

"A temptation to lie? I don't recommend you to do that, forwhen I'm misinformed I'm as dangerous as a poisoned rat. Idon't mean to crow over you."

"It's my husband who doesn't get on with me," said Isabel."I could have told him he wouldn't. I don't call that crowing

over YOU," Mrs. Touchett added. "Do you still like SerenaMerle?" she went on.

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"Not as I once did. But it doesn't matter, for she's going toAmerica."

"To America? She must have done something very bad.""Yes—very bad.""May I ask what it is?""She made a convenience of me.""Ah," cried Mrs. Touchett, "so she did of me! She does of

every one.""She'll make a convenience of America," said Isabel, smiling

again and glad that her aunt's questions were over.It was not till the evening that she was able to see Ralph. He

had been dozing all day; at least he had been lying uncon-scious. The doctor was there, but after a while went away—thelocal doctor, who had attended his father and whom Ralphliked. He came three or four times a day; he was deeply inter-ested in his patient. Ralph had had Sir Matthew Hope, but hehad got tired of this celebrated man, to whom he had asked hismother to send word he was now dead and was thereforewithout further need of medical advice. Mrs. Touchett hadsimply written to Sir Matthew that her son disliked him. On theday of Isabel's arrival Ralph gave no sign, as I have related, formany hours; but toward evening he raised himself and said heknew that she had come.

How he knew was not apparent, inasmuch as for fear of ex-citing him no one had offered the information. Isabel came inand sat by his bed in the dim light; there was only a shadedcandle in a corner of the room. She told the nurse she mightgo—she herself would sit with him for the rest of the evening.He had opened his eyes and recognised her, and had moved hishand, which lay helpless beside him, so that she might take it.But he was unable to speak; he closed his eyes again and re-mained perfectly still, only keeping her hand in his own. Shesat with him a long time— till the nurse came back; but hegave no further sign. He might have passed away while shelooked at him; he was already the figure and pattern of death.She had thought him far gone in Rome, and this was worse;there was but one change possible now. There was a strangetranquillity in his face; it was as still as the lid of a box. Withthis he was a mere lattice of bones; when he opened his eyes togreet her it was as if she were looking into immeasurable

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space. It was not till midnight that the nurse came back; butthe hours, to Isabel, had not seemed long; it was exactly whatshe had come for. If she had come simply to wait she foundample occasion, for he lay three days in a kind of grateful si-lence. He recognised her and at moments seemed to wish tospeak; but he found no voice. Then he closed his eyes again, asif he too were waiting for something—for something that cer-tainly would come. He was so absolutely quiet that it seemedto her what was coming had already arrived; and yet she neverlost the sense that they were still together. But they were notalways together; there were other hours that she passed inwandering through the empty house and listening for a voicethat was not poor Ralph's. She had a constant fear; she thoughtit possible her husband would write to her. But he remained si-lent, and she only got a letter from Florence and from theCountess Gemini. Ralph, however, spoke at last—on the even-ing of the third day.

"I feel better to-night," he murmured, abruptly, in the sound-less dimness of her vigil; "I think I can say something." Shesank upon her knees beside his pillow; took his thin hand inher own; begged him not to make an effort—not to tire himself.His face was of necessity serious—it was incapable of the mus-cular play of a smile; but its owner apparently had not lost aperception of incongruities. "What does it matter if I'm tiredwhen I've all eternity to rest? There's no harm in making an ef-fort when it's the very last of all. Don't people always feel bet-ter just before the end? I've often heard of that; it's what I waswaiting for. Ever since you've been here I thought it wouldcome. I tried two or three times; I was afraid you'd get tired ofsitting there." He spoke slowly, with painful breaks and longpauses; his voice seemed to come from a distance. When heceased he lay with his face turned to Isabel and his large un-winking eyes open into her own. "It was very good of you tocome," he went on. "I thought you would; but I wasn't sure."

"I was not sure either till I came," said Isabel."You've been like an angel beside my bed. You know they talk

about the angel of death. It's the most beautiful of all. You'vebeen like that; as if you were waiting for me."

"I was not waiting for your death; I was waiting for—for this.This is not death, dear Ralph."

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"Not for you—no. There's nothing makes us feel so muchalive as to see others die. That's the sensation of life—thesense that we remain. I've had it—even I. But now I'm of no usebut to give it to others. With me it's all over." And then hepaused. Isabel bowed her head further, till it rested on the twohands that were clasped upon his own. She couldn't see himnow; but his far-away voice was close to her ear. "Isabel," hewent on suddenly, "I wish it were over for you." She answerednothing; she had burst into sobs; she remained so, with herburied face. He lay silent, listening to her sobs; at last he gavea long groan. "Ah, what is it you have done for me?"

"What is it you did for me?" she cried, her now extreme agit-ation half smothered by her attitude. She had lost all hershame, all wish to hide things. Now he must know; she wishedhim to know, for it brought them supremely together, and hewas beyond the reach of pain. "You did something once—youknow it. O Ralph, you've been everything! What have I done foryou—what can I do to-day? I would die if you could live. But Idon't wish you to live; I would die myself, not to lose you." Hervoice was as broken as his own and full of tears and anguish.

"You won't lose me—you'll keep me. Keep me in your heart; Ishall be nearer to you than I've ever been. Dear Isabel, life isbetter; for in life there's love. Death is good—but there's nolove."

"I never thanked you—I never spoke—I never was what Ishould be!" Isabel went on. She felt a passionate need to cryout and accuse herself, to let her sorrow possess her. All hertroubles, for the moment, became single and melted togetherinto this present pain. "What must you have thought of me? Yethow could I know? I never knew, and I only know to-day be-cause there are people less stupid than I."

"Don't mind people," said Ralph. "I think I'm glad to leavepeople."

She raised her head and her clasped hands; she seemed for amoment to pray to him. "Is it true—is it true?" she asked.

"True that you've been stupid? Oh no," said Ralph with asensible intention of wit.

"That you made me rich—that all I have is yours?"He turned away his head, and for some time said nothing.

Then at last: "Ah, don't speak of that—that was not happy."

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Slowly he moved his face toward her again, and they oncemore saw each other. "But for that—but for that—!" And hepaused. "I believe I ruined you," he wailed.

She was full of the sense that he was beyond the reach ofpain; he seemed already so little of this world. But even if shehad not had it she would still have spoken, for nothingmattered now but the only knowledge that was not pure an-guish—the knowledge that they were looking at the truthtogether.

"He married me for the money," she said. She wished to sayeverything; she was afraid he might die before she had doneso. He gazed at her a little, and for the first time his fixed eyeslowered their lids. But he raised them in a moment, and then,"He was greatly in love with you," he answered.

"Yes, he was in love with me. But he wouldn't have marriedme if I had been poor. I don't hurt you in saying that. How canI? I only want you to understand. I always tried to keep youfrom understanding; but that's all over."

"I always understood," said Ralph."I thought you did, and I didn't like it. But now I like it.""You don't hurt me—you make me very happy." And as Ralph

said this there was an extraordinary gladness in his voice. Shebent her head again, and pressed her lips to the back of hishand. "I always understood," he continued, "though it was sostrange—so pitiful. You wanted to look at life for yourself—butyou were not allowed; you were punished for your wish. Youwere ground in the very mill of the conventional!"

"Oh yes, I've been punished," Isabel sobbed.He listened to her a little, and then continued: "Was he very

bad about your coming?""He made it very hard for me. But I don't care.""It is all over then between you?""Oh no; I don't think anything's over.""Are you going back to him ?" Ralph gasped."I don't know—I can't tell. I shall stay here as long as I may. I

don't want to think—I needn't think. I don't care for anythingbut you, and that's enough for the present. It will last a littleyet. Here on my knees, with you dying in my arms, I'm happierthan I have been for a long time. And I want you to be happy—not to think of anything sad; only to feel that I'm near you and I

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love you. Why should there be pain—? In such hours as thiswhat have we to do with pain? That's not the deepest thing;there's something deeper."

Ralph evidently found from moment to moment greater diffi-culty in speaking; he had to wait longer to collect himself. Atfirst he appeared to make no response to these last words; helet a long time elapse. Then he murmured simply: "You muststay here."

"I should like to stay—as long as seems right.""As seems right— as seems right?" He repeated her words.

"Yes, you think a great deal about that.""Of course one must. You're very tired," said Isabel."I'm very tired. You said just now that pain's not the deepest

thing. No—no. But it's very deep. If I could stay—""For me you'll always be here," she softly interrupted. It was

easy to interrupt him.But he went on, after a moment: "It passes, after all; it's

passing now. But love remains. I don't know why we shouldsuffer so much. Perhaps I shall find out. There are many thingsin life. You're very young."

"I feel very old," said Isabel."You'll grow young again. That's how I see you. I don't be-

lieve— I don't believe—" But he stopped again; his strengthfailed him.

She begged him to be quiet now. "We needn't speak to un-derstand each other," she said.

"I don't believe that such a generous mistake as yours canhurt you for more than a little."

"Oh Ralph, I'm very happy now," she cried through her tears."And remember this," he continued, "that if you've been

hated you've also been loved. Ah but, Isabel—ADORED!" hejust audibly and lingeringly breathed.

"Oh my brother!" she cried with a movement of still deeperprostration.

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Chapter 55He had told her, the first evening she ever spent at Garden-court, that if she should live to suffer enough she might someday see the ghost with which the old house was duly provided.She apparently had fulfilled the necessary condition; for thenext morning, in the cold, faint dawn, she knew that a spiritwas standing by her bed. She had lain down without undress-ing, it being her belief that Ralph would not outlast the night.She had no inclination to sleep; she was waiting, and suchwaiting was wakeful. But she closed her eyes; she believed thatas the night wore on she should hear a knock at her door. Sheheard no knock, but at the time the darkness began vaguely togrow grey she started up from her pillow as abruptly as if shehad received a summons. It seemed to her for an instant thathe was standing there—a vague, hovering figure in the vague-ness of the room. She stared a moment; she saw his whiteface—his kind eyes; then she saw there was nothing. She wasnot afraid; she was only sure. She quitted the place and in hercertainty passed through dark corridors and down a flight ofoaken steps that shone in the vague light of a hall-window.Outside Ralph's door she stopped a moment, listening, but sheseemed to hear only the hush that filled it. She opened thedoor with a hand as gentle as if she were lifting a veil from theface of the dead, and saw Mrs. Touchett sitting motionless andupright beside the couch of her son, with one of his hands inher own. The doctor was on the other side, with poor Ralph'sfurther wrist resting in his professional fingers. The two nurseswere at the foot between them. Mrs. Touchett took no notice ofIsabel, but the doctor looked at her very hard; then he gentlyplaced Ralph's hand in a proper position, close beside him. Thenurse looked at her very hard too, and no one said a word; butIsabel only looked at what she had come to see. It was fairerthan Ralph had ever been in life, and there was a strange

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resemblance to the face of his father, which, six years before,she had seen lying on the same pillow. She went to her auntand put her arm around her; and Mrs. Touchett, who as a gen-eral thing neither invited nor enjoyed caresses, submitted for amoment to this one, rising, as might be, to take it. But she wasstiff and dry-eyed; her acute white face was terrible.

"Dear Aunt Lydia," Isabel murmured."Go and thank God you've no child," said Mrs. Touchett, dis-

engaging herself.Three days after this a considerable number of people found

time, at the height of the London "season," to take a morningtrain down to a quiet station in Berkshire and spend half anhour in a small grey church which stood within an easy walk. Itwas in the green burial-place of this edifice that Mrs. Touchettconsigned her son to earth. She stood herself at the edge of thegrave, and Isabel stood beside her; the sexton himself had nota more practical interest in the scene than Mrs. Touchett. Itwas a solemn occasion, but neither a harsh nor a heavy one;there was a certain geniality in the appearance of things. Theweather had changed to fair; the day, one of the last of thetreacherous May-time, was warm and windless, and the air hadthe brightness of the hawthorn and the blackbird. If it was sadto think of poor Touchett, it was not too sad, since death, forhim, had had no violence. He had been dying so long; he wasso ready; everything had been so expected and prepared.There were tears in Isabel's eyes, but they were not tears thatblinded. She looked through them at the beauty of the day, thesplendour of nature, the sweetness of the old English church-yard, the bowed heads of good friends. Lord Warburton wasthere, and a group of gentlemen all unknown to her, several ofwhom, as she afterwards learned, were connected with thebank; and there were others whom she knew. Miss Stackpolewas among the first, with honest Mr. Bantling beside her; andCaspar Goodwood, lifting his head higher than the rest—bow-ing it rather less. During much of the time Isabel was con-scious of Mr. Goodwood's gaze; he looked at her somewhatharder than he usually looked in public, while the others hadfixed their eyes upon the churchyard turf. But she never lethim see that she saw him; she thought of him only to wonderthat he was still in England. She found she had taken for

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granted that after accompanying Ralph to Gardencourt he hadgone away; she remembered how little it was a country thatpleased him. He was there, however, very distinctly there; andsomething in his attitude seemed to say that he was there witha complex intention. She wouldn't meet his eyes, though therewas doubtless sympathy in them; he made her rather uneasy.With the dispersal of the little group he disappeared, and theonly person who came to speak to her—though several spoketo Mrs. Touchett—was Henrietta Stackpole. Henrietta hadbeen crying.

Ralph had said to Isabel that he hoped she would remain atGardencourt, and she made no immediate motion to leave theplace. She said to herself that it was but common charity tostay a little with her aunt. It was fortunate she had so good aformula; otherwise she might have been greatly in want of one.Her errand was over; she had done what she had left her hus-band to do. She had a husband in a foreign city, counting thehours of her absence; in such a case one needed an excellentmotive. He was not one of the best husbands, but that didn't al-ter the case. Certain obligations were involved in the very factof marriage, and were quite independent of the quantity of en-joyment extracted from it. Isabel thought of her husband aslittle as might be; but now that she was at a distance, beyondits spell, she thought with a kind of spiritual shudder of Rome.There was a penetrating chill in the image, and she drew backinto the deepest shade of Gardencourt. She lived from day today, postponing, closing her eyes, trying not to think. Sheknew she must decide, but she decided nothing; her coming it-self had not been a decision. On that occasion she had simplystarted. Osmond gave no sound and now evidently would givenone; he would leave it all to her. From Pansy she heard noth-ing, but that was very simple: her father had told her not towrite.

Mrs. Touchett accepted Isabel's company, but offered her noassistance; she appeared to be absorbed in considering,without enthusiasm but with perfect lucidity, the new conveni-ences of her own situation. Mrs. Touchett was not an optimist,but even from painful occurrences she managed to extract acertain utility. This consisted in the reflexion that, after all,such things happened to other people and not to herself. Death

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was disagreeable, but in this case it was her son's death, nother own; she had never flattered herself that her own would bedisagreeable to any one but Mrs. Touchett. She was better offthan poor Ralph, who had left all the commodities of life be-hind him, and indeed all the security; since the worst of dyingwas, to Mrs. Touchett's mind, that it exposed one to be takenadvantage of. For herself she was on the spot; there was noth-ing so good as that. She made known to Isabel very punctu-ally—it was the evening her son was buried—several of Ralph'stestamentary arrangements. He had told her everything, hadconsulted her about everything. He left her no money; ofcourse she had no need of money. He left her the furniture ofGardencourt, exclusive of the pictures and books and the useof the place for a year; after which it was to be sold. Themoney produced by the sale was to constitute an endowmentfor a hospital for poor persons suffering from the malady ofwhich he died; and of this portion of the will Lord Warburtonwas appointed executor. The rest of his property, which was tobe withdrawn from the bank, was disposed of in various be-quests, several of them to those cousins in Vermont to whomhis father had already been so bountiful. Then there were anumber of small legacies.

"Some of them are extremely peculiar," said Mrs. Touchett;"he has left considerable sums to persons I never heard of. Hegave me a list, and I asked then who some of them were, andhe told me they were people who at various times had seemedto like him. Apparently he thought you didn't like him, for hehasn't left you a penny. It was his opinion that you had beenhandsomely treated by his father, which I'm bound to say Ithink you were—though I don't mean that I ever heard himcomplain of it. The pictures are to be dispersed; he has distrib-uted them about, one by one, as little keepsakes. The mostvaluable of the collection goes to Lord Warburton. And what doyou think he has done with his library? It sounds like a practic-al joke. He has left it to your friend Miss Stackpole—'in recog-nition of her services to literature.' Does he mean her followinghim up from Rome? Was that a service to literature? It containsa great many rare and valuable books, and as she can't carry itabout the world in her trunk he recommends her to sell it atauction. She will sell it of course at Christie's, and with the

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proceeds she'll set up a newspaper. Will that be a service toliterature?"

This question Isabel forbore to answer, as it exceeded thelittle interrogatory to which she had deemed it necessary tosubmit on her arrival. Besides, she had never been less inter-ested in literature than to-day, as she found when she occa-sionally took down from the shelf one of the rare and valuablevolumes of which Mrs. Touchett had spoken. She was quite un-able to read; her attention had never been so little at her com-mand. One afternoon, in the library, about a week after the ce-remony in the churchyard, she was trying to fix it for an hour;but her eyes often wandered from the book in her hand to theopen window, which looked down the long avenue. It was inthis way that she saw a modest vehicle approach the door andperceived Lord Warburton sitting, in rather an uncomfortableattitude, in a corner of it. He had always had a high standard ofcourtesy, and it was therefore not remarkable, under the cir-cumstances, that he should have taken the trouble to comedown from London to call on Mrs. Touchett. It was of courseMrs. Touchett he had come to see, and not Mrs. Osmond; andto prove to herself the validity of this thesis Isabel presentlystepped out of the house and wandered away into the park.Since her arrival at Gardencourt she had been but little out ofdoors, the weather being unfavourable for visiting the grounds.This evening, however, was fine, and at first it struck her as ahappy thought to have come out. The theory I have just men-tioned was plausible enough, but it brought her little rest, andif you had seen her pacing about you would have said she hada bad conscience. She was not pacified when at the end of aquarter of an hour, finding herself in view of the house, shesaw Mrs. Touchett emerge from the portico accompanied byher visitor. Her aunt had evidently proposed to Lord Warbur-ton that they should come in search of her. She was in no hu-mour for visitors and, if she had had a chance, would havedrawn back behind one of the great trees. But she saw she hadbeen seen and that nothing was left her but to advance. As thelawn at Gardencourt was a vast expanse this took some time;during which she observed that, as he walked beside his host-ess, Lord Warburton kept his hands rather stiffly behind himand his eyes upon the ground. Both persons apparently were

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silent; but Mrs. Touchett's thin little glance, as she directed ittoward Isabel, had even at a distance an expression. It seemedto say with cutting sharpness: "Here's the eminently amenablenobleman you might have married!" When Lord Warburton lif-ted his own eyes, however, that was not what they said. Theyonly said "This is rather awkward, you know, and I dependupon you to help me." He was very grave, very proper and, forthe first time since Isabel had known him, greeted her withouta smile. Even in his days of distress he had always begun witha smile. He looked extremely selfconscious.

"Lord Warburton has been so good as to come out to seeme," said Mrs. Touchett. "He tells me he didn't know you werestill here. I know he's an old friend of yours, and as I was toldyou were not in the house I brought him out to see for himself."

"Oh, I saw there was a good train at 6.40, that would get meback in time for dinner," Mrs. Touchett's companion rather ir-relevantly explained. "I'm so glad to find you've not gone."

"I'm not here for long, you know," Isabel said with a certaineagerness.

"I suppose not; but I hope it's for some weeks. You came toEngland sooner than—a—than you thought?"

"Yes, I came very suddenly."Mrs. Touchett turned away as if she were looking at the con-

dition of the grounds, which indeed was not what it should be,while Lord Warburton hesitated a little. Isabel fancied he hadbeen on the point of asking about her husband—rather con-fusedly—and then had checked himself. He continued immitig-ably grave, either because he thought it becoming in a placeover which death had just passed, or for more personal reas-ons. If he was conscious of personal reasons it was very fortu-nate that he had the cover of the former motive; he could makethe most of that. Isabel thought of all this. It was not that hisface was sad, for that was another matter; but it was strangelyinexpressive.

"My sisters would have been so glad to come if they hadknown you were still here—if they had thought you would seethem," Lord Warburton went on. "Do kindly let them see youbefore you leave England."

"It would give me great pleasure; I have such a friendly re-collection of them."

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"I don't know whether you would come to Lockleigh for a dayor two? You know there's always that old promise." And hislordship coloured a little as he made this suggestion, whichgave his face a somewhat more familiar air. "Perhaps I'm notright in saying that just now; of course you're not thinking ofvisiting. But I meant what would hardly be a visit. My sistersare to be at Lockleigh at Whitsuntide for five days; and if youcould come then—as you say you're not to be very long in Eng-land—I would see that there should be literally no one else."

Isabel wondered if not even the young lady he was to marrywould be there with her mamma; but she did not express thisidea.

"Thank you extremely," she contented herself with saying;"I'm afraid I hardly know about Whitsuntide."

"But I have your promise—haven't I?—for some other time."There was an interrogation in this; but Isabel let it pass. She

looked at her interlocutor a moment, and the result of her ob-servation was that—as had happened before—she felt sorry forhim. "Take care you don't miss your train," she said. And thenshe added: "I wish you every happiness."

He blushed again, more than before, and he looked at hiswatch. "Ah yes, 6.40; I haven't much time, but I've a fly at thedoor. Thank you very much." It was not apparent whether thethanks applied to her having reminded him of his train or tothe more sentimental remark. "Good-bye, Mrs. Osmond; good-bye." He shook hands with her, without meeting her eyes, andthen he turned to Mrs. Touchett, who had wandered back tothem. With her his parting was equally brief; and in a momentthe two ladies saw him move with long steps across the lawn.

"Are you very sure he's to be married?" Isabel asked of heraunt.

"I can't be surer than he; but he seems sure. I congratulatedhim, and he accepted it."

"Ah," said Isabel, "I give it up!"—while her aunt returned tothe house and to those avocations which the visitor hadinterrupted.

She gave it up, but she still thought of it—thought of it whileshe strolled again under the great oaks whose shadows werelong upon the acres of turf. At the end of a few minutes shefound herself near a rustic bench, which, a moment after she

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had looked at it, struck her as an object recognised. It was notsimply that she had seen it before, nor even that she had satupon it; it was that on this spot something important hadhappened to her—that the place had an air of association. Thenshe remembered that she had been sitting there, six years be-fore, when a servant brought her from the house the letter inwhich Caspar Goodwood informed her that he had followed herto Europe; and that when she had read the letter she looked upto hear Lord Warburton announcing that he should like tomarry her. It was indeed an historical, an interesting, bench;she stood and looked at it as if it might have something to sayto her. She wouldn't sit down on it now— she felt rather afraidof it. She only stood before it, and while she stood the pastcame back to her in one of those rushing waves of emotion bywhich persons of sensibility are visited at odd hours. The effectof this agitation was a sudden sense of being very tired, underthe influence of which she overcame her scruples and sank intothe rustic seat. I have said that she was restless and unable tooccupy herself; and whether or no, if you had seen her there,you would have admired the justice of the former epithet, youwould at least have allowed that at this moment she was theimage of a victim of idleness. Her attitude had a singular ab-sence of purpose; her hands, hanging at her sides, lost them-selves in the folds of her black dress; her eyes gazed vaguelybefore her. There was nothing to recall her to the house; thetwo ladies, in their seclusion, dined early and had tea at an in-definite hour. How long she had sat in this position she couldnot have told you; but the twilight had grown thick when shebecame aware that she was not alone. She quicklystraightened herself, glancing about, and then saw what hadbecome of her solitude. She was sharing it with Caspar Good-wood, who stood looking at her, a few yards off, and whosefootfall on the unresonant turf, as he came near, she had notheard. It occurred to her in the midst of this that it was just soLord Warburton had surprised her of old.

She instantly rose, and as soon as Goodwood saw he wasseen he started forward. She had had time only to rise when,with a motion that looked like violence, but felt like—she knewnot what, he grasped her by the wrist and made her sink againinto the seat. She closed her eyes; he had not hurt her; it was

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only a touch, which she had obeyed. But there was somethingin his face that she wished not to see. That was the way he hadlooked at her the other day in the churchyard; only at presentit was worse. He said nothing at first; she only felt him close toher—beside her on the bench and pressingly turned to her. Italmost seemed to her that no one had ever been so close to heras that. All this, however, took but an instant, at the end ofwhich she had disengaged her wrist, turning her eyes upon hervisitant. "You've frightened me," she said.

"I didn't mean to," he answered, "but if I did a little, no mat-ter. I came from London a while ago by the train, but I couldn'tcome here directly. There was a man at the station who gotahead of me. He took a fly that was there, and I heard him givethe order to drive here. I don't know who he was, but I didn'twant to come with him; I wanted to see you alone. So I've beenwaiting and walking about. I've walked all over, and I was justcoming to the house when I saw you here. There was a keeper,or someone, who met me; but that was all right, because I hadmade his acquaintance when I came here with your cousin. Isthat gentleman gone? Are you really alone? I want to speak toyou." Goodwood spoke very fast; he was as excited as whenthey had parted in Rome. Isabel had hoped that conditionwould subside; and she shrank into herself as she perceivedthat, on the contrary, he had only let out sail. She had a newsensation; he had never produced it before; it was a feeling ofdanger. There was indeed something really formidable in hisresolution. She gazed straight before her; he, with a hand oneach knee, leaned forward, looking deeply into her face. Thetwilight seemed to darken round them. "I want to speak toyou," he repeated; "I've something particular to say. I don'twant to trouble you—as I did the other day in Rome. That wasof no use; it only distressed you. I couldn't help it; I knew I waswrong. But I'm not wrong now; please don't think I am," hewent on with his hard, deep voice melting a moment into en-treaty. "I came here to-day for a purpose. It's very different. Itwas vain for me to speak to you then; but now I can help you."

She couldn't have told you whether it was because she wasafraid, or because such a voice in the darkness seemed of ne-cessity a boon; but she listened to him as she had neverlistened before; his words dropped deep into her soul. They

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produced a sort of stillness in all her being; and it was with aneffort, in a moment, that she answered him. "How can you helpme?" she asked in a low tone, as if she were taking what hehad said seriously enough to make the enquiry in confidence.

"By inducing you to trust me. Now I know—to-day I know. Doyou remember what I asked you in Rome? Then I was quite inthe dark. But to-day I know on good authority; everything'sclear to me to-day. It was a good thing when you made mecome away with your cousin. He was a good man, a fine man,one of the best; he told me how the case stands for you. He ex-plained everything; he guessed my sentiments. He was a mem-ber of your family and he left you—so long as you should be inEngland—to my care," said Goodwood as if he were making agreat point. "Do you know what he said to me the last time Isaw him—as he lay there where he died? He said: 'Doeverything you can for her; do everything she'll let you.'"

Isabel suddenly got up. "You had no business to talk aboutme!"

"Why not—why not, when we talked in that way?" he deman-ded, following her fast. "And he was dying—when a man's dy-ing it's different." She checked the movement she had made toleave him; she was listening more than ever; it was true that hewas not the same as that last time. That had been aimless,fruitless passion, but at present he had an idea, which shescented in all her being. "But it doesn't matter!" he exclaimed,pressing her still harder, though now without touching a hemof her garment. "If Touchett had never opened his mouth Ishould have known all the same. I had only to look at you atyour cousin's funeral to see what's the matter with you. Youcan't deceive me any more; for God's sake be honest with aman who's so honest with you. You're the most unhappy of wo-men, and your husband's the deadliest of fiends."

She turned on him as if he had struck her. "Are you mad?"she cried.

"I've never been so sane; I see the whole thing. Don't thinkit's necessary to defend him. But I won't say another wordagainst him; I'll speak only of you," Goodwood added quickly."How can you pretend you're not heart-broken? You don't knowwhat to do— you don't know where to turn. It's too late to playa part; didn't you leave all that behind you in Rome? Touchett

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knew all about it, and I knew it too—what it would cost you tocome here. It will have cost you your life? Say it will"—and heflared almost into anger: "give me one word of truth! When Iknow such a horror as that, how can I keep myself from wish-ing to save you? What would you think of me if I should standstill and see you go back to your reward? 'It's awful, what she'llhave to pay for it!'—that's what Touchett said to me. I may tellyou that, mayn't I? He was such a near relation!" cried Good-wood, making his queer grim point again. "I'd sooner havebeen shot than let another man say those things to me; but hewas different; he seemed to me to have the right. It was afterhe got home—when he saw he was dying, and when I saw ittoo. I understand all about it: you're afraid to go back. You'reperfectly alone; you don't know where to turn. You can't turnanywhere; you know that perfectly. Now it is therefore that Iwant you to think of ME."

"To think of 'you'?" Isabel said, standing before him in thedusk. The idea of which she had caught a glimpse a few mo-ments before now loomed large. She threw back her head alittle; she stared at it as if it had been a comet in the sky.

"You don't know where to turn. Turn straight to me. I want topersuade you to trust me," Goodwood repeated. And then hepaused with his shining eyes. "Why should you go back—whyshould you go through that ghastly form?"

"To get away from you!" she answered. But this expressedonly a little of what she felt. The rest was that she had neverbeen loved before. She had believed it, but this was different;this was the hot wind of the desert, at the approach of whichthe others dropped dead, like mere sweet airs of the garden. Itwrapped her about; it lifted her off her feet, while the verytaste of it, as of something potent, acrid and strange, forcedopen her set teeth.

At first, in rejoinder to what she had said, it seemed to herthat he would break out into greater violence. But after an in-stant he was perfectly quiet; he wished to prove he was sane,that he had reasoned it all out. "I want to prevent that, and Ithink I may, if you'll only for once listen to me. It's too mon-strous of you to think of sinking back into that misery, of goingto open your mouth to that poisoned air. It's you that are out ofyour mind. Trust me as if I had the care of you. Why shouldn't

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we be happy—when it's here before us, when it's so easy? I'myours for ever—for ever and ever. Here I stand; I'm as firm as arock. What have you to care about? You've no children; thatperhaps would be an obstacle. As it is you've nothing to con-sider. You must save what you can of your life; you mustn't loseit all simply because you've lost a part. It would be an insult toyou to assume that you care for the look of the thing, for whatpeople will say, for the bottomless idiocy of the world. We'venothing to do with all that; we're quite out of it; we look atthings as they are. You took the great step in coming away; thenext is nothing; it's the natural one. I swear, as I stand here,that a woman deliberately made to suffer is justified in any-thing in life—in going down into the streets if that will helpher! I know how you suffer, and that's why I'm here. We can doabsolutely as we please; to whom under the sun do we oweanything? What is it that holds us, what is it that has the smal-lest right to interfere in such a question as this? Such a ques-tion is between ourselves—and to say that is to settle it! Werewe born to rot in our misery—were we born to be afraid? I nev-er knew YOU afraid! If you'll only trust me, how little you willbe disappointed! The world's all before us—and the world'svery big. I know something about that."

Isabel gave a long murmur, like a creature in pain; it was asif he were pressing something that hurt her.

"The world's very small," she said at random; she had an im-mense desire to appear to resist. She said it at random, to hearherself say something; but it was not what she meant. Theworld, in truth, had never seemed so large; it seemed to openout, all round her, to take the form of a mighty sea, where shefloated in fathomless waters. She had wanted help, and herewas help; it had come in a rushing torrent. I know not whethershe believed everything he said; but she believed just then thatto let him take her in his arms would be the next best thing toher dying. This belief, for a moment, was a kind of rapture, inwhich she felt herself sink and sink. In the movement sheseemed to beat with her feet, in order to catch herself, to feelsomething to rest on.

"Ah, be mine as I'm yours!" she heard her companion cry. Hehad suddenly given up argument, and his voice seemed to

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come, harsh and terrible, through a confusion of vaguersounds.

This however, of course, was but a subjective fact, as themetaphysicians say; the confusion, the noise of waters, all therest of it, were in her own swimming head. In an instant shebecame aware of this. "Do me the greatest kindness of all," shepanted. "I beseech you to go away!"

"Ah, don't say that. Don't kill me!" he cried.She clasped her hands; her eyes were streaming with tears.

"As you love me, as you pity me, leave me alone!"He glared at her a moment through the dusk, and the next

instant she felt his arms about her and his lips on her own lips.His kiss was like white lightning, a flash that spread, andspread again, and stayed; and it was extraordinarily as if, whileshe took it, she felt each thing in his hard manhood that hadleast pleased her, each aggressive fact of his face, his figure,his presence, justified of its intense identity and made one withthis act of possession. So had she heard of those wrecked andunder water following a train of images before they sink. Butwhen darkness returned she was free. She never looked abouther; she only darted from the spot. There were lights in thewindows of the house; they shone far across the lawn. In an ex-traordinarily short time—for the distance was considerable—she had moved through the darkness (for she saw nothing) andreached the door. Here only she paused. She looked all abouther; she listened a little; then she put her hand on the latch.She had not known where to turn; but she knew now. Therewas a very straight path.

Two days afterwards Caspar Goodwood knocked at the doorof the house in Wimpole Street in which Henrietta Stackpoleoccupied furnished lodgings. He had hardly removed his handfrom the knocker when the door was opened and Miss Stack-pole herself stood before him. She had on her hat and jacket;she was on the point of going out. "Oh, good-morning," he said,"I was in hopes I should find Mrs. Osmond."

Henrietta kept him waiting a moment for her reply; but therewas a good deal of expression about Miss Stackpole even whenshe was silent. "Pray what led you to suppose she was here?"

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"I went down to Gardencourt this morning, and the servanttold me she had come to London. He believed she was to cometo you."

Again Miss Stackpole held him—with an intention of perfectkindness—in suspense. "She came here yesterday, and spentthe night. But this morning she started for Rome."

Caspar Goodwood was not looking at her; his eyes werefastened on the doorstep. "Oh, she started—?" he stammered.And without finishing his phrase or looking up he stiffly aver-ted himself. But he couldn't otherwise move.

Henrietta had come out, closing the door behind her, andnow she put out her hand and grasped his arm. "Look here,Mr. Goodwood," she said; "just you wait!"

On which he looked up at her—but only to guess, from herface, with a revulsion, that she simply meant he was young.She stood shining at him with that cheap comfort, and it ad-ded, on the spot, thirty years to his life. She walked him awaywith her, however, as if she had given him now the key topatience.

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