 Section 15, Chapter 42 of The Portrait of a Lady, Volume 2. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Portrait of a Lady by Henry James, Chapter 42. She had answered nothing, because his words had put the situation before her, and she was absorbed in looking at it. There was something in them that suddenly made vibrations deep, so that she had been afraid to trust herself to speak. After he had gone, she lent back in her chair and closed her eyes, and for a long time far into the night and still further, she sat in the still drawing-room, given up to her meditation. The servant came in to attend to the fire, and she bade him bring fresh candles and then go to bed. Osmond had told her to think of what he had said, and she did so indeed, and of many other things. The suggestion from another that she had a definite influence on Lord Warburton, this had given her the start that a company's unexpected recognition. Was it true that there was something still between them that might be a handle to make him declare himself to pansy, a susceptibility on his part to approval, a desire to do what would please her? Isabelle had hitherto not asked herself the question, because she had not been forced, but now that it was directly presented to her, she saw the answer, and the answer frightened her. Yes, there was something, something on Lord Warburton's part. When he had first come to Rome, she believed the link that united them to be completely snapped, but little by little she had been reminded that it had yet a palpable existence. It was as thin as a hair, but there were moments when she seemed to hear it vibrate. For herself nothing was changed. What she once thought of him she always thought. It was needless this feeling should change. It seemed to her in fact a better feeling than ever, but he, had he still the idea that she might be more to him than other women? Had he the wish to profit by the memory of the few moments of intimacy through which they had once passed? Isabelle knew she had read some of the signs of such a disposition, but what were his hopes, his pretensions, and in what strange way were they mingled with his evidently very sincere appreciation of poor pansy? Was he in love with Gilbert Osmond's wife, and if so, what comfort did he expect to derive from it? If he was in love with pansy, he was not in love with her stepmother, and if he was in love with her stepmother, he was not in love with pansy. Was she to cultivate the advantage she possessed in order to make him commit himself to pansy, knowing he would do so for her sake and not for the small creature's own? Was this the service her husband had asked of her? This at any rate was the duty with which she found herself confronted, from the moment she admitted to herself that her old friend had still an uneradicated pre-election for her society. It was not an agreeable task, it was in fact a repulsive one. She asked herself with dismay whether Lord Warburton were pretending to be in love with pansy in order to cultivate another satisfaction, and what might be called other chances. With this refinement of duplicity she presently acquitted him. She preferred to believe him in perfect good faith, but if his admiration for pansy were a delusion, this was scarcely better than its being an affectation. Isabelle wandered among these ugly possibilities until she had completely lost her way. Some of them, as she suddenly encountered them, seemed ugly enough. Then she broke out of the labyrinth, rubbing her eyes, and declared that her imagination surely did her little honour, and that her husbands did him even less. Lord Warburton was as disinterested as he need be, and she was no more to him than she need wish. She would rest upon this till the contrary should be proved, proved more effectually than by a cynical intimation of Osmunds. Such a resolution, however, brought her this evening but little peace, for her soul was haunted with terrors which crowded to the foreground of thought as quickly as a place was made for them. What had suddenly set them into lively emotion she hardly knew, unless it were the strange impression she had received in the afternoon of her husbands being in more direct communication with Madame Mail than she suspected. 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 Osmund half an hour ago was a striking example of his faculty for making everything wither that he touched, spoiling everything for her that he looked at. It was very well to undertake to give him a proof of loyalty. The real fact was that the knowledge of his expecting a thing raised a presumption against it. It was as if he had had the evil eye, as if his presence were a blight and his favour a misfortune. Was the fault in himself or only in the deep mistrust she had conceived for him? This mistrust was not the clearest result of their short married life. A gulf had opened between them, over which they looked at each other with eyes that were on either side a declaration of the deception suffered. It was a strange opposition of the like of which she had never dreamt. An opposition in which the vital principle of the one was a thing of contempt to the other. It was not her fault. She had practised no deception. She had only admired and believed. She had taken all the first steps in the purest confidence, and then she had suddenly found the infinite vista of a multiplied life to be a dark, narrow alley with a dead wall at the end. Instead of leading to the high places of happiness, from which the world would seem to lie below one, so that one could look down with a sense of exaltation and advantage, and judge and choose and pity, it led rather downward and earthward into the realms of restriction and depression, where the sound of other lives, easier and freer, was heard as from above, and where it served to deepen the feeling of failure. It was her deep distrust of her husband. This was what darkened the world. That is a sentiment easily indicated, but not so easily explained, and so composite in its character that much time and still more suffering had 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 response to every pressure. She flattered herself that she had kept her failing faith to herself, however, that no one suspected it but Osmond. Oh, he knew it! And there were times when she thought he enjoyed it. It had come gradually. It was not till the first year of their life together, so admirably intimate at first, had closed that she had taken the alarm. Then the shadows had begun to gather. It was as if Osmond deliberately, almost malignantly, had put the lights out one by one. The dusk at first was vague and thin, and she could still see her way in it, but it steadily deepened, and if now and again it had occasionally lifted, there were certain corners of her prospect that were impenetrably black. These shadows were not an emanation from her own mind. She was very sure of that. She had done her best to be just and temperate, to see only the truth. They were a part, they were a kind of creation and consequence of her husband's very presence. They were not his misdeeds, his turpitudes. She accused him of nothing. That is but of one thing which was not a crime. She knew of no wrong he had done. He was not violent. He was not cruel. She simply believed he hated her. That was all she accused him of, and the miserable part of it was precisely that it was not a crime, for against a crime she might have found redress. He had discovered that she was so different that she was not what he had believed she would prove to be. He had thought at first he could change her, and she had done her best to be what he would like. But she was, after all, herself. She couldn't help that, and now there was no use pretending wearing a mask or a dress, for he knew her and had made up his mind. She was not 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 possible, never give her a pretext, never put himself in the wrong. Isabel, scanning the future with dry, fixed eyes, saw that he would have the better of her there. She would give him many pretexts. She would often put herself in the wrong. There were times when she almost pitied him, for if she had not deceived him in intention, she understood how completely she must have done so, in fact. She had effaced herself when he first knew her. She had made herself small, pretending there was less of her than there really was. It was because she had been under the extraordinary charm that he, on his side, had taken pains to put forth. He was not changed. He had not disguised himself during the year of his courtship any more than she. But she had seen only half his nature then, as one saw the disc of the moon when it was partly masked by the shadow of the earth. She saw the full moon now. She saw the whole man. She had kept still, as it were, so that he should have a free field, and yet, in spite of this, she had mistaken apart for the whole. Ah! She had been immensely under the charm. It had not passed away. It was there still. She still knew perfectly what it was that made Osman delightful when he chose to be. He had wished to be when he made love to her, and as she had wished to be charmed, it was not wonderful he had succeeded. He had succeeded because he had been sincere. It never occurred to her now to deny him that. He admired her. He had told her why, because she was the most imaginative woman he had known. It might very well have been true. For during those months she had imagined a world of things that had no substance. She had had a more wondrous vision of him, fed through charmed senses, and oh! such stirred fancy. She had not read him right. A certain combination of features had touched her, and in them she had seen the most striking of figures, that he was poor and lonely, and yet that somehow he was noble. That was what had interested her, and seemed to give her her opportunity. There had been an indefinable beauty about him, in his situation, in his mind, in his face. She had found at the same time that he was helpless and ineffectual, but the feeling had taken the form of a tenderness, which was the very flower of respect. He was like a sceptical voyager strolling on the beach, while he waited for the tide, looking seaward, yet not putting to sea. It was in all this that she had found her occasion. She would launch his boat for him. She would be his providence. It would be a good thing to love him, and she had loved him. She had so anxiously and yet so ardently given herself, a good deal for what she found in him, but a good deal also for what she brought him, and what might enrich the gift. As she looked back at the passion of those full weeks, she perceived in it a kind of maternal strain, the happiness of a woman who felt that she was a contributor, that she came with charged hands. But for her money, as she saw today, she would never have done it. And then her mind wandered off to poor Mr. Touchit, sleeping under English turf, the beneficent author of Infinite Woe. For this was the fantastic fact. At bottom her money had been a burden, had been on her mind, which was filled with the desire to transfer the weight of it to some other conscience, to some more prepared receptacle. What would lighten her own conscience more effectively than to make it over to the man with the best taste in the world? Unless she should have given it to a hospital, there would have been nothing better she could do with it, and there was no charitable institution in which she had been as much interested as in Gilbert Osmond. He would use her fortune in a way that would make her think better of it, and rub off a certain grossness attaching to the good luck of an unexpected inheritance. There had been nothing very delicate in inheriting seventy thousand pounds. The delicacy had been all in Mr. Touchit's leaving them to her. But to marry Gilbert Osmond, and bring him such a portion, in that there would be delicacy for her as well. There would be less for him, that was true, but that was his affair, and if he loved her, he wouldn't object to her being rich. Had he not the courage to say he was glad she was rich? Isabelle's cheek burnt when she asked herself if she had really married on a factitious theory in order to do something finally appreciable with her money. But she was able to answer quickly enough that this was only half the story. It was because a certain ardour took possession of her, a sense of the earnestness of his affection, and a delight in his personal qualities. He was better than anyone else. This supreme conviction had filled her life for months, and enough of it still remained to prove to her that she could not have done otherwise. The finest in the sense of being the subtlest manly organism she had ever known had become her property, and the recognition of her having but to put out her hands and take it had been originally a sort of act of devotion. She had not been mistaken about the beauty of his mind. She knew that organ perfectly now. She had lived with it. She had lived in it almost. It appeared to have become her habitation. If she had been captured, it had taken a firm hand to seize her. That reflection perhaps had some worth. A mind more ingenious, more pliant, more cultivated, more trained to admirable exercises she had not encountered, and it was this exquisite instrument she had now to reckon with. She lost herself in infinite dismay when she thought of the magnitude of his deception. It was a wonder, perhaps, in view of this, that he didn't hate her more. She remembered perfectly the first sign he had given of it. It had been like the bell that was to ring up the curtain upon the real drama of their life. He said to her one day that she had too many ideas and that she must get rid of them. He had told her that already before their marriage, but then she had not noticed it. It had come back to her only afterwards. This time she might well have noticed it, because he had really meant it. The words had been nothing superficially, but when in the light of deepening experience she had looked into them, they had then appeared portentous. He had really meant it. He would have liked her to have nothing of her own, but her pretty appearance. She had known she had too many ideas. She had more even than he had supposed. Many more than she had expressed to him when he had asked her to marry him. Yes, she had been hypocritical. She had liked him so much. She had too many ideas for herself. But that was just what one married for, to share them with someone else. One couldn't pluck them up by the roots, though of course one might suppress them, be careful not to utter them. It had not been this, however, his objecting to her opinions. This had been nothing. She had no opinions, none that she would not have been eager to sacrifice in the satisfaction of feeling herself loved for it. What he had meant had been the whole thing, her character, the way she felt, the way she judged. This was what she had kept in reserve. This was what he had not known, until he had found himself, with the door closed behind as it were, set down face to face with it. She had a certain way of looking at life, which he took as a personal offence. Heaven knew that now at least it was a very humble, accommodating way. The strange thing was that she should not have suspected from the first that his own had been so different. She had thought it so large, so enlightened, so perfectly that of an honest man and a gentleman. But he assured her that he had no superstitions, no dull limitations, no prejudices that had lost their freshness, and he all the appearance of a man living in the open air of the world, indifferent to small considerations, caring only for truth and knowledge, and believing that two intelligent people ought to look for them together, and whether they found them or not, find at least some happiness in the search. He had told her he loved the conventional, but there was a sense in which this seemed a noble declaration. In that sense, that of the love of harmony and order and decency and of all the stately offices of life, she went with him freely, and his warning had contained nothing ominous. But when, as the months had elapsed, she had followed him further, and he had led her into the mansion of his own habitation, then, then, she had seen where she really was. She could live it over again, the incredulous terror with which she had taken the measure of her dwelling. Between those four walls she had lived ever since, they were to surround her for the rest of her life. It was the house of darkness, the house of dumbness, the house of suffocation. Osmond's beautiful mind gave it neither light nor air. Osmond's beautiful mind indeed seemed to peep down from a small, high window, and mock at her. Of course it had not been physical suffering. For physical suffering there might have been a remedy. She could come and go, she had her liberty, her husband was perfectly polite. He took himself so seriously, it was something appalling. Under all his culture, his cleverness, his amenity, under his good nature, his facility, his knowledge of life, his egotism lay hidden like a serpent in a bank of flowers. She had taken him seriously, but she had not taken him so seriously as that. How could she, especially when she had known him better? She was to think of him as he thought of himself as the first gentleman in Europe. So it was that she had thought of him at first, and that indeed was the reason she had married him. But when she began to see what it implied, she drew back there was more in the bond than she had meant to put her name to. It implied a sovereign contempt for everyone but some three or four very exalted people whom he envied, and for everything in the world but half a dozen ideas of his own. That was very well. She would have gone with him even there a long distance, for he pointed out to her so much of the baseness and shabbiness of life, opened her eyes so wide to the stupidity, the depravity, the ignorance of mankind, that she had been properly impressed by the infinite vulgarity of things and of the virtue of keeping oneself unspotted by it. But this base, ignoble world it appeared, was after all what one was to live for, one was to keep it forever in one's eye, in order not to enlighten, or convert, or redeem it, but to extract from it some recognition of one's own superiority. On the one hand it was despicable, but on the other it afforded a standard. Osmond had talked to Isabel about his renunciation, his indifference, the ease with which he dispensed with the usual aids to success, and all this had seemed to her admirable. She had thought it a grand indifference, an exquisite independence, but indifference was really the last of his qualities. She had never seen anyone who thought so much of others. For herself avowedly, the world had always interested her, and the study of her fellow-creatures been her constant passion. She would have been willing, however, to renounce all her curiosities and sympathies for the sake of a personal life, if the person concerned had only been able to make her believe it was a gain. This at least was her present conviction, and the thing certainly would have been easier than to care for society, as Osmond cared for it. He was unable to live without it, and she saw that he had never really done so. He had looked at it out of his window, even when he appeared to be most detached from it. He had his ideal, just as she had tried to have hers, only it was strange that people should seek for justice in such different quarters. His ideal was a conception of high prosperity and propriety of the aristocratic life, which she now saw that he deemed himself always, in essence at least, to have led. He had never lapsed from it for an hour. He would never have recovered from the shame of doing so. That again was very well. Here, too, she would 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 great knowledge with great liberty. The knowledge would give one a sense of duty, and the liberty a sense of enjoyment. But for Osmond it was altogether a thing of forms, a conscious, calculated attitude. He was fond of the old, the consecrated, the transmitted, so was she, but she pretended to do what she chose with it. He had an immense esteem for tradition. He had told 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 must immediately proceed to make it. She knew that he meant by this that she hadn't it, but that he was better off. Though from what source he had derived his traditions, she never learnt. He had a very large collection of them, however, that was very certain, and after a little she began to see. The great thing was to act in accordance with them, the great thing not only for him, but for her. Isabelle had an undefined conviction that to serve for another person than their proprietor, traditions must be of a thoroughly superior kind, but she nevertheless assented to this intimation that she too must march to the stately music that floated down from unknown periods in her husband's past. She who of old had been so free of step, so desultory, so devious, so much the reverse of processional. There were certain things they must do, a certain posture they must take, certain people they must know and not know. When she saw this rigid system close about her, draped though it was in pictured tapestries, that sense of darkness and suffocation, of which I have spoken, took possession of her. She seemed shut up with an odour of mould and decay. She had resisted, of course, at first very humorously, chronically, tenderly, then as the situation grew more serious, eagerly, passionately, pleadingly. She had pleaded the cause of freedom, of doing as they chose, of not caring for the aspect and denomination of their life, the cause of other instincts and longings, of quite another ideal. Then it was that her husband's personality, touched, as it never had been, stepped forth and stood erect. The things she had said were answered only by his scorn, and she could see he was ineffably ashamed of her. What did he think of her, that she was base, vulgar, ignoble? He at least knew now that she had no traditions. It had not been in his provision of things that she should reveal such flatness. Her sentiments were worthy of a radical newspaper or a unitarian preacher. The real offence, as she ultimately perceived, was her having a mind of her own at all. Her mind was to be his, attached to his own like a small garden-plot to a deer-park. He would rake the soil gently and water the flowers. He would weed the beds and gather an occasional nose-gay. It would be a pretty piece of property for a proprietor already far-reaching. He didn't wish her to be stupid. On the contrary, it was because she was clever that she had pleased him, but he expected her intelligence to operate altogether in his favour, and so far from desiring her mind to be a blank, he had flattered himself that it would be richly receptive. He had expected his wife to feel with him and for him, to enter into his opinions, his ambitions, his preferences, and Isabel was obliged to confess that this was no great insolence on the part of a man so accomplished and a husband originally at least so tender. But there were certain things she could never take in. To begin with, they were hideously unclean. She was not a daughter of the Puritans, but for all that, she believed in such a thing as chastity and even as decency. It would appear that Osmond was far from doing anything of the sort. Some of his traditions made her push back her skirts. Did all women have lovers? Did they all lie? And even the best have their price? Were there only three or four that didn't deceive their husbands? When Isabel heard such things, she felt a greater scorn for them than for the gossip of a village parlor, a scorn that kept its freshness in a very tainted air. There was the taint of her sister-in-law, did her husband judge only by the countess Gemini. This lady very often lied, and she had practiced deceptions that were not simply verbal. It was enough to find these facts assumed among Osmond's traditions. It was enough without giving them such a general extension. It was her scorn of his assumptions. It was this that made him draw himself up. He had plenty of contempt, and it was proper his wife should be as well furnished, but that she should turn the hot light of her disdain upon his own conception of things. This was a danger he had not allowed for. He believed he should have regulated her emotions before she came to it, and Isabel could easily imagine how his ears had scorched on his discovering he had been too confident. When one had a wife who gave one that sensation, there was nothing left but to hate her. She was morally certain now that this feeling of hatred, which had first had been a refuge and a refreshment, had become the occupation and comfort of his life. The feeling was deep because it was sincere. He had had the revelation that she could, after all, dispense with him. If to herself the idea was startling, if it presented itself at first as a kind of infidelity, a capacity for pollution, what infinite effect might it not be expected to have had upon him? It was very simple. He despised her. She had no traditions and the moral horizon of a Unitarian minister, poor Isabel, who had never been able to understand Unitarianism. This was the certitude she had been living with now for a time that she had ceased to measure. What was coming? What was before them? That was her constant question. What would he do? What ought she to do? When a man hated his wife, what did it lead to? She didn't hate him, that she was sure of. For every little while she felt a passionate wish to give him a pleasant surprise. Very often, however, she felt afraid, and it used to come over her, as I have intimated, that she had deceived him at the very first. They were strangely married at all events, and it was a horrible life. Until that morning he had scarcely spoken to her for a week. His manner was as dry as a burnt-out fire. She knew there was a special reason. He was displeased at Ralph Touchett's staying on in Rome. He thought she saw too much of her cousin. He had told her a week before. It was indecent she should go to him at his hotel. He would have said more than this if Ralph's invalid state had not appeared to make it brutal to denounce him, but having had to contain himself had only deepened his disgust. Ralph read all this as she would have read the hour on the clock-face. She was as perfectly aware that the sight of her interest in her cousin stirred her husband's rage, as if Osmond had locked her into her room, which she was sure was what he wanted to do. It was 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 never see him again. This gave her a tenderness for him that she had never known before. Nothing was a pleasure to her now. How could anything be a pleasure to a woman who knew that she had thrown away her life? There was an everlasting wait on her heart. There was a livid light on everything. But Ralph's little visit was a lamp in the darkness, for the hour that she sat with him, her ache for herself, became somehow her ache for him. She felt today as if he had been her brother. She had never had a brother, but if she had, and she were in trouble and he were dying, he would be dear to her as Ralph was. Oh, yes, if Gilbert was jealous of her, there was perhaps some reason. It didn't make Gilbert look better to sit for half an hour with Ralph. It was not that they talked of him. It was not that she complained. His name was never uttered between them. It was simply that Ralph was generous and that her husband was not. There was something in Ralph's talk, in his smile, in the mere fact of his being in Rome, that made the blasted circle round which she walked more spacious. He made her feel the good of the world. He made her feel what might have been. He was, after all, as intelligent as Osmond, quite apart from his being better, and thus it seemed to her an act of devotion to conceal her misery from him. She concealed it elaborately. She was perpetually, in their talk, hanging out curtains and arranging screens. It lived before her again. It had never had time to die, that morning in the garden at Florence when he had warned her against Osmond. She had only to close her eyes, to see the place, to hear his voice, to feel the warm, sweet air. How could he have known? What a mystery! What a wonder of wisdom! As intelligent as Gilbert, he was much more intelligent, to arrive at such a judgment as that. Gilbert had never been so deep, so just. She had told him then that from her, at least, he should never know if he was right, and this was what she was taking care of now. It gave her plenty to do. There was passion, exaltation, religion in it. Women find their religion sometimes in strange exercises, and Isabella present in playing a part before her cousin had an idea that she was doing him a kindness. It would have been a kindness, perhaps, if he had been for a single instant a dupe. As it was, the kindness consisted mainly in trying to make him believe that he had once wounded her greatly, and that the event had put him to shame, but that, as she was very generous and he was so ill, she bore him no grudge, and even considerably forbore to flaunt her happiness in his face. Ralph smiled to himself as he lay on his sofa at this extraordinary form of consideration, but he forgave her for having forgiven him. She didn't wish him to have the pain of knowing she was unhappy. That was the great thing, and it didn't matter that such knowledge would rather have righted him. For herself she lingered in the soundless saloon long after the fire had gone out. There was no danger of her feeling the cold. She was in a fever. She heard the small hour's strike, and then the great ones, but her vigil took no heed of time. Her mind, assailed by visions, was in a state of extraordinary activity, and her visions might as well come to her there where she sat up to meet them, as on her pillow to make a mockery of rest. As I have said, she believed she was not defiant, and what could be a better proof of it than that she should linger there half the night, trying to persuade herself that there was no reason why Pansy shouldn't be married as she would put a letter 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 gone out, and the candles burnt down to their sockets. But even then she stopped again in the middle of the room, and stood there gazing at a remembered vision, that of her husband and madame mail, unconsciously and familiarly associated. Chapter 42 Chapter 43 of The Portrait of a Lady, Volume 2. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Belinda Brown of Indianapolis, Indiana. The Portrait of a Lady, Volume 2 by Henry James, Chapter 43. Three nights after this she took Pansy to a great party to which Osmond, who never went to dances, did not accompany them. Pansy was as ready for a dance as ever. She was not of a generalizing turn, and had not extended to other pleasures the interdict she had seen placed on those of love. If she was biding her time, or hoping to circumvent her father, she must have had a provision of success. Isabel thought this unlikely. It was much more likely that Pansy had simply determined to be a good girl. She had never had such a chance, and she had a proper esteem for chances. She carried herself no less attentively than usual, and kept no less anxious than I upon her vaporous skirts. She held her bouquet very tight, and counted over the flowers for the twentieth time. She made Isabel feel old. It seemed so long since she had been a flutter about a ball. Pansy, who was greatly admired, was never in want of partners, and very soon after their arrival she gave Isabel, who was not dancing, her bouquet to hold. Isabel had rendered her this service for some minutes when she became aware of the near presence of Edward Rosier. He stood before her. He had lost his affable smile, and wore a look of almost military resolution. The change in his appearance would have made Isabel smile if she had not felt his case to be at bottom a hard one. He had always smelt so much more of heliotrope than of gunpowder. He looked at her moment somewhat fiercely, as if to notify her he was dangerous, and then dropped his eyes on her bouquet. After he had inspected it, his glance softened, and he said quickly, It's all pansies. It must be hers. Isabel smiled kindly. Yes, it's hers. She gave it to me to hold. May I hold it a little, Mrs. Osmond? The poor young man asked. No, I can't trust you. I'm afraid you wouldn't give it back. I'm not sure that I should. I should leave the house with it instantly. But may I not at least have a single flower? Isabel hesitated a moment, and, then smiling still, held out the bouquet. Choose one yourself. It's frightful what I'm doing for you. Ah! If you do know more than this, Mrs. Osmond, Rosier exclaimed with his glass in one eye, carefully choosing his flower. Don't put it in your buttonhole, she said. Don't for the world. 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 for you to show her, but it is out of place to show it to others. Her father has told her not to dance with you. And is that all you can do for me? I expected more from you, Mrs. Osmond, said the young man in a tone of fine general reference. You know our acquaintance goes back very far, quite into the days of our innocent childhood. Don't make me out so old, Isabel patiently answered. You come back to that very often, and I've never denied it. But I must tell you that, old friends as we are, if you had done me the honor to ask me to marry you, I should have refused you on the spot. Ah! You don't esteem me then. Say it once that you think me a mere Parisian trifler. I esteem you very much, but I'm not in love with you. What I mean by that, of course, is that I'm not in love with you for pansy. Very good. I see you pity me. That's all. And Edward Rosier looked all around, inconsequently, with a single glass. It was a revelation to him that people shouldn't be more pleased, but he was at least too proud to show that the deficiency struck him as general. Isabel for a moment said nothing. His manner and appearance had not the dignity of the deepest tragedy. His little glass, among other things, was against that. But she suddenly felt touched. Her own unhappiness, after all, had something in common with his. And it came over her, more than before, that here, in recognizable, if not in romantic form, was the most affecting thing in the world, young love struggling with adversity. Would you really be very kind to her? She finally asked in a low voice. He dropped his eyes to Vatley and raised the little flower that he held in his fingers to his lips. Then he looked at her. You pity 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 to go away. Rosier lingered a moment till Pansy came in sight on the arm of her cavalier. He stood just long enough to look her in the face. Then he walked away, holding up his head, and the manner in which he achieved the sacrifice to expediency convinced Isabel he was very much in love. Pansy, who seldom got disarranged in dancing, looking perfectly fresh and cool after this exercise, waited a moment and then took back her bouquet. Isabel watched her and saw she was counting the flowers, whereupon she said to herself that, decidedly, there were deeper forces at play than she had recognized. Pansy had seen Rosier turn away, but she said nothing to Isabel about him. She talked only of her partner after he had made his bow and retired, of the music, the floor, the rare misfortune of having already torn her dress. Isabel was sure, however, she had discovered her lover to have abstracted a flower, though this knowledge was not needed to account for the dutiful grace with which she responded to the appeal of her next partner. That perfect amenity, under acute constraint, was part of a larger system. Again led forth by a flushed young man, this time carrying her bouquet. And she had not been absent many minutes when Isabel saw Lord Warburton advancing through the crowd. He presently drew near and bade her good evening. She had not seen him since the day before. He looked about him, and then, where's the little maid? He asked. It was in this manner that he had formed the harmless habit of alluding to Miss Osmond. She's dancing, said Isabel. You'll see her somewhere. 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 wallflower. 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 yourself. She dances very hard, and you'll be all the fresher, Burton, following her with his eyes. Ah, at last, he added, she has given me a smile. He stood there with his handsome, easy, important physiognomy, and, as Isabel observed him, it came over her, as it had done before, that it was strange a man of his metal should take an interest in a little maid. It struck her as a great incongruity, neither Pansy's small fascinations, nor his own kindness, his good nature, not even his need for amusement, which was extreme and constant, were sufficient to account for it. 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 talk with you. Yes, it's better. And it's more worthy of your dignity, great statesman awnton to waltz. Don't be cruel. Why did you recommend me to dance with Miss Osmond? Ah, that's difference. If you danced with her, it would look simply like a piece of kindness, as if you were doing it for her amusement. If you dance with me, you'll look as if you were doing 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. Use 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 than usually dangerous tonight. Will you absolutely not dance? I can't leave my place. Pansy must find me here. He was silent a little while. You're wonderfully good to her, he said suddenly. Isabel stared a little and smiled. Can you imagine anyone's not being? No, indeed. I know how one is charmed with her. But you must have done a great deal for her. I've taken her out with me, Isabel, smiling still, and I've seen that she has proper clothes. Your society must have been a great benefit to her. You've talked 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 interfered with 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 liked Lord Warburton. She thought him pleasanter even than the sum of his merits warranted. There was something in his friendship that appeared a kind of resource in case of indefinite need. It was like having a large balance at the bank. She felt happier when he was in the room. There was something reassuring in his approach. The sound of his voice reminded her of the beneficence of nature. Yet, for all that, it didn't suit her that he should be too near to her. That he should take too much of her goodwill for granted. She was afraid of that. She averted herself from it. She wished he wouldn't. She felt that if he should come too near, as it were, it might be in her to flash out and bid him keep his distance. Pansy came back to Isabel with another rent in her skirt, which was the inevitable consequence of the first, and which she displayed to Isabel with serious eyes. There were too many gentlemen in uniform. They wore those dreadful spurs, which were fatal to the dresses of little maids. But hereupon became apparent that the resources of women are innumerable. Isabel devoted herself to Pansy's desecrated drapery. She fumbled for a pen and repaired the injury. She smiled and listened to her account of her adventures. Her attention, her sympathy, were immediate and active, and they were in direct proportion to a sentiment with which they were in no way connected. A lively conjecture as to whether Lord Warburton might be trying to make love to her. It was not simply his words just then, it was others as well. It was the referencing and the continuity. This was what she thought about while she pinned up Pansy's dress. If it were so, as she feared, he was, of a course, unwitting. He himself had not taken account of his intention. But this made it none the more auspicious, made the situation none less impossible. The sooner he should get back into right relations with things the better. He immediately began to talk to Pansy, on whom it was certainly mystifying to see that he had dropped a smile of chase and devotion. Pansy replied, as usual, with a little air of conscientious aspiration. He had to bend toward her a good deal in conversation and her eyes as usual, wandered up and down his robust person as if he had offered it to her for exhibition. She always seemed a little frightened, yet her fright was not of a painful character that suggests dislike. On the contrary, she looked as if she knew that he knew she liked him. Isabelle left them together a little while and wandered toward a friend whom she saw near and with whom she talked till the music of the following dance began, for which she knew Pansy to be also engaged. The girl joined her presently with a little fluttered flush and Isabelle, who scrupulously took O'sman's view of his daughter's complete dependence, consigned her as a precious and momentary loan to her appointed partner. After all this matter she had her own imaginations, her own reserves. There were moments when Pansy's extreme adhesiveness made each of them, to her sense, look foolish. But O'sman had given her a sort of tableau of her position as his daughter's duena, which consisted of gracious alternations of concession and contraction, and there were directions of his which she liked to think she obeyed to the letter. Perhaps as regards some of them it was because her doing so appeared to reduce them to the absurd. After Pansy had been led away she found Lord Warburton drawing near her again. She rested her eyes on him steadily. She wished she could sound his thoughts. But he had no appearance of confusion. She has promised to dance with me later, he said. I'm glad of that. I suppose you've engaged her for the Cotillion. At this he looked a little awkward. No, I didn't ask her for that. It's a quadril. Ah, you're not clever, said Isabelle almost angrily. I told her to keep the Cotillion in case you should ask for it. More little maid, fancy that, and Lord Warburton laughed frankly. 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 fellows on her book. Isabelle 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 did not do so, however. She only said to him, after a minute, with her own raised, Please, let me understand. Understand what? You told me ten days ago that you would like to marry my step-daughter. You've not forgotten it. Forgotten it? I wrote to Mr. Osmond about it this morning. Ah, said Isabelle. He didn't mention to me that he heard from you. Lord Warburton stammered a little. I didn't send the letter. Perhaps you forgot that. No. I wasn't satisfied with it. It was 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 wished then to marry her? Very much indeed. Aren't you afraid that you'll bore her? And as her companion stared at this inquiry, Isabelle added, If she can't dance with you for half an hour, how will she be able to dance with you for life? Ah, said Warburton readily. I'll let her dance with other people. About the Cotillion, the fact is, I thought that you-that you-that I would do it with you. I told you. I do nothing. Exactly. So that while it's going on, I might find some quiet corner where we may sit down and talk. Oh, said Isabelle gravely. You're much too considerate of me. When the Cotillion came, Pansy was found to have engaged herself, thinking in perfect humility that Lord Warburton had no intentions. Isabelle recommended to him to seek another partner, but he assured her that he would dance with no one but herself. As, however, she had, in spite of the remonstrances of her hostess, declined other invitations on the ground that she was not dancing at all, it was not possible for her to make an exception in Lord Warburton's favor. After all, I don't care to dance, he said. It's a barbarous amusement. I'd much rather talk. And he intimated that he had discovered exactly the corner he had been looking for, a quiet nook in one of the smaller rooms where the music would come to them faintly and not interfere with conversation. Isabelle had decided to let him carry out his idea. She wished to be satisfied. She wandered away from the ballroom with him, though she knew her husband desired that she should not lose sight of his daughter. It was with his daughter's pretendent, however, that would make it right for O's mind. On her way out of the ballroom she came upon Edward Rosier, who was standing in a doorway with folded arms, looking at the dance in the attitude of a young man without illusions. She stopped a moment and asked him if he were not dancing. Certainly not. If I cannot dance with her, he answered. You had better go away, then, said Isabelle, 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 noble man, however, had noticed the melancholy youth, and he asked Isabelle who her dismal friend was, remarking that he had seen him somewhere before. It's the young man I've told you about, who's in love with Pansy. 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 acquired? He seems very harmless. He hasn't money enough, and he isn't very clever. Lord Warburton listened with interest. He seemed struck with his account of Edward Rosier. Dear me, he looked a well-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 today. Lord Warburton rejoined vaguely, looking about him. Then with more point. Don't you think we might sit here, he asked? Wherever you please. The room was sort of a bourgeois, pervaded by a subdued, rose-colored light. A lady and a gentleman moved out as our friends came in. It's very kind of you to take such an interest in Mr. Rosier, Isabel said. He seems to me rather ill-treated. He had a face a yard long. I wondered what ailed him. You're just a man, said Isabel. You've a kind thought, even for a rival. Lord Warburton suddenly turned with a stare. A rival? Do you 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 yourself 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 for it. Yes, I'm laughing at you a little, but I like you as somebody to laugh at. Ah, well, then, let me enter into this situation a little more. What do you suppose one could do for him? As I have been praising your imagination, I'll leave you to imagine that yourself, Isabel said. Pansy, too, would like you for that. Mrs. Mond? Ah, she. I flatter myself. Likes me already. Very much, I think. He waited a little. She was still questioning her face. Well, then, I don't understand you. You don't mean that she cares for him. A quick blush sprang to his brow. She told me she would have no wish apart from her father's, and, as I've gathered, that he would favor 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 father, and that it would probably take her very far. That seems to me a very proper feeling, said Lord Warburton. Certainly, it's a very proper feeling. Isabel remained silent for some moments. The room continued empty. The sound of the music reached them, with its richness softened by the interposing apartments. Then at last she said, But it hardly strikes me, as the sort of feeling to which a man would wish to be indebted for a wife. I don't know. If the wife's a good one, and he thinks she does well—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 than you. 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 be more lovable than Miss Osmond? No one, possibly. But love has nothing to do with good reasons. 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 straw for them. Ah, really in love. Really in love! Lord Warburton exclaimed, float folding his arms, leaning back his head, and stretching himself a little. You must remember that I'm forty-two years old. 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, looking before him. Abruptly, however, he changed his position. He turned quickly to his friend. Why are you so unwilling, so skeptical? She met his eyes, and for a moment they looked straight at each other. If she wished to be satisfied, she saw something that satisfied her. She saw in his expression the gleam of an idea that she was uneasy on her own account, that she was perhaps even in fear. It showed a suspicion, not a hope, 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 proposal of marrying her stepdaughter an implication of increased nearness to herself or of thinking it on such a betrayal ominous. In that brief, extremely personal gaze, however, deeper meanings passed between them than they were conscious 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 adjoining room, where, within her companion's view, she was immediately addressed by a pair of gentlemen, high personages in the Roman world, who met her as if they were looking for her. While she talked with them, she found herself regretting that she had moved. It looked a little like running away. All the more as Lord Warburton didn't follow her. She was glad of this, however, and, at any rate, she was satisfied. She was so well satisfied that when in passing, back into the ballroom, she found Edward Rosear still planted in the doorway, she stopped and spoke to him again. You did right not to go away. I have some comfort for you. I need it, the young man softly wailed, when I see you so awfully thick with him. Don't speak of him. I'll do what I can for you. I'm afraid it won't be much, but what I can, I'll do. He looked at her with gloomy obliqueness, what has suddenly brought you round. The sense that you are an inconvenience in doorway, she answered, smiling as she passed him. Half an hour later she took leave with Pansy, and at the foot of the staircase, the two ladies, with many other departing guests, waited a while for their carriage. Just as it approached, Lord Warburton came out of the house and assisted them to reach their vehicle. He stood a moment at the door, asking Pansy if she had amused herself, and she, having answered him, fell back with a little air of fatigue. And Isabelle, at the window, detained him by a movement of her finger murmur gently. Don't forget to send your letter to her father. End of CHAPTER 43. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, reading by Belinda Brown of Indianapolis, Indiana. Portrait of a Lady, Volume 2 by Henry James, Chapter 44 The Countess Jamini was often extremely bored, bored in her own 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, who insisted upon living in his native town, where he enjoyed such consideration as might attach to a gentleman whose talents for losing at cards had not the merit of being incidental to an obliging disposition. The Count Jamini was not liked even by those who won from him, and he bore a name which, having a measurable value in Florence, was like the local coin of old Italian states without currency in other parts of the peninsula. In Rome he was simply a very dull Florentine, and it is not remarkable that he should not have cared to pay frequent visits to a place where, to carry it off, his dullness needed more explanation than was convenient. The Countess lived with her eyes upon Rome, and it was her constant grievance of her life that she had not a habitation there. She was ashamed to say how seldom she had been allowed to visit that city. It scarcely made the matter better that there were other members of the Florentine nobility who had never been there at all. She went whenever she could, that was all she could say, or rather, not at all, but all she could say she could say. In fact, she had much more to say about it, and had often set forth the reasons why she hate Florence and wished to end her days in the shadow of St. Peter's. There are reasons, however, that do not closely concern us, and were usually summed up in the Declaration that Rome, in short, was the eternal city, and that Florence was simply a pretty little place like any other. The Countess apparently needed to connect the idea of eternity with her amusements. She was convinced that society was infinitely more interesting in Rome, where you met celebrities all winter at evening parties. At Florence there were no celebrities, none at least that one had heard of. Since her brother's marriage, her impatience had greatly increased. She was so sure his wife had a more brilliant life than herself. She was not so intellectual as Isabelle, but she was intellectual enough to do justice to Rome, not to the ruins and the catacombs, not even perhaps to the monuments and museums, the church ceremonies and the scenery, but certainly to all the rest. She heard a great deal about her sister-in-law, and knew perfectly that Isabelle was having a beautiful time. She had indeed seen it for herself on the only occasion on which she had enjoyed the hospitality of Palazzo Rocanera. She had spent a week there during the first winter of her brother's marriage, but she had not been encouraged to renew this satisfaction. Osman didn't want her. That, she was perfectly aware of, but she would have gone all the same, for after all she didn't care too straws about Osman. It was her husband who wouldn't let her, and the money-question was always a trouble. Isabelle had been very nice to the Countess, who had liked her sister-in-law from the first, had not been blinded by Envita Isabelle's personal merits. She had always observed that she got on better with clever women than with silly ones like herself. The silly ones could never understand her wisdom, whereas the clever ones, the really clever ones, always understood her silliness. It appeared to her that, different as they were in appearance in general style, Isabelle and she had somewhere a patch of common ground that they would set their feet upon at last. It was not very large, but it was firm, and they should both know it when they had really touched it. And then she lived with Mr. Osman, under the influence of a pleasant surprise. She was constantly expecting that Isabelle would look down on her as she constantly saw this operation postpone. She asked herself when it would begin, like fireworks, or lent, or the opera season. Not that she cared much, but she wondered what kept it in abeyance. Her sister-in-law regarded her with none but level glances and expressed for the poor Countess as little contempt as admiration. In reality, Isabelle would as soon have thought of despising her as a passing moral judgment on a grasshopper. She was not indifferent to her husband's sister. However, she was rather a little afraid of her. She thought her very extraordinary. The Countess seemed to her to have no soul. She was like a bright rare shell with a polished surface and a remarkably pink lip in which something would rattle when you shook it. This rattle was apparently the Countess's spiritual principle. A little loose knot that tumbled about inside of her. She was too odd for disdain, too anomalous for comparisons. Isabelle would have invited her again. There was no question of inviting the Count. But Osmond, after his marriage, had not scrupled to say, frankly, that Amy was a fool of the worst species, a fool whose folly had the irrepressibility of genius. He said at another time that she had no heart, and he added in a moment that she had given it all away in small pieces, like a frosted wedding-cake. The fact of not having been asked was, of course, another obstacle to the Countess's going again to Rome. But at the period which this history is now to deal, she was in receipt of an invitation to spend several weeks at Palazzo Rocanera. The proposal had come from Osmond himself, who wrote to his sister that she must be prepared to be very quiet. Whether or no, she found in this phrase all the meaning he had put into it I am unable to say. But she accepted the invitation on any terms. She was curious, moreover, for one of the impressions of her former visit had been that her husband had found his match. Before the marriage she had been sorry for Isabel, so sorry as to have had serious thoughts, if any of the Countess's thoughts were serious, of putting her on her guard. But she had let this pass, and after a little she was reassured. One was as lofty as ever, but his wife would not be an easy victim. The Countess was not very exact at measurements, but it seemed to her that if Isabel could draw herself up, she would be the taller spirit of the two. What she wanted to learn now was whether Isabel had drawn herself up. It would give her immense pleasure to see Osmond overtopped. Several days before she was to start for Rome, a servant brought her the card of a visitor. A card with the simple superscription, Henrietta C. Stackpole. The Countess pressed her fingertips to her forehead. She did not remember to have known any such Henrietta as that. The servant then remarked that the lady had requested him to say that if the Countess should not recognize her name, she would know her well enough on seeing her. By the time she appeared before her visitor, she had in fact reminded herself that there was once a literary lady at Mrs. Tuchette's, the only woman of letters she had ever encountered, that is, the only modern one, since she was the daughter of a defunct poetess. She recognized Ms. Stackpole immediately, the more so that Ms. Stackpole seemed perfectly unchanged, and the Countess, who was thoroughly good-natured, thought it rather fine to be called on by a person of that sort of distinction. She wondered if Ms. Stackpole had come on account of her mother, whether she had heard of the American Corrine. Her mother was not at all like Isabelle's friend. The Countess could see at a glance that this lady was much more contemporary, and she received an impression of the improvements that were taking place, chiefly in distant countries, in the character, the professional character, of literary ladies. Her mother had been used to wear a Roman scarf thrown over a pair of shoulders, timorously bared, of their tight black velvet, oh, the old clothes, and a gold laurel wreath set upon a multitude of glossy ringlets. She had spoken softly and vaguely with the accent of her Creole ancestors, as she always confessed. She cited great deal, and was not at all enterprising, but Henrietta, the Countess, could see, was always closely buttoned and compactly braided. There was something brisk and businesslike in her appearance. Her manner was almost conscientiously familiar. It was as impossible to imagine her ever vaguely sighing as to imagine a letter posted without its address. The Countess could not but feel that the correspondent of the interviewer was much more in the movement than the American Corrine. She explained that she had called on the Countess because she was the only person she knew in Florence, and that, when she visited a foreign city, she liked to see something more than the superficial travelers. She knew Mrs. Toucheet, but Mrs. Toucheet was in America, and even if she had been in Florence, Henrietta would not have put herself out for her, since Mrs. Toucheet was not one of her admirations. "'Do you mean by that that I am?' the Countess graciously asked. "'Well, I like you better than I do hers,' said Miss Stackpole. "'I seem to remember that when I saw you before, you were very interesting. I don't know whether it was an accident or whether it's your usual style. At any rate, I was a good deal struck with what you said. I made use of it afterwards in print.' "'Dear me!' cried the Countess, staring half-alarmed. I had no idea. I had ever said anything remarkable. I wish I had known it at the time. It was about the position of woman in this city, Miss Stackpole remarked. You threw a good deal of light upon it. The position of woman's very uncomfortable. Is that what you mean? And you wrote it down and published it?' The Countess went on. "'Ah, do let me see it. I'll write to them to send you the paper, if you like,' Henrietta said. I didn't mention your name. I only said a lady of high rank, and then I quoted your views. The Countess threw herself hastily backwards, tossing up her class-pans. Do you know? I'm rather sorry you didn't mention my name. I should have rather of liked to have seen my name in the papers. I forget what my views were. I have so many. But I'm not ashamed of them. I'm not at all like my brother. I suppose you know my brother. He thinks it's a kind of scandal to be put in 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 Miss Stackpole, with Blandrinus. "'That's another reason,' she added, why I wanted to come see you. You know, Mr. O's mom married my dearest friend. Ah, yes, you were a friend of Isabelle's. I was trying to think what I knew about you.' "'I am quite willing to be known by that,' Henrietta declared. But that isn't what your brother likes to know me by. He has tried to break up my relations with Isabelle.' "'Don't permit it,' said the Countess. "'That's what I want to talk to you 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. My husband won't like it, but he needn't ever see it. Besides, he doesn't know how to read. Henrietta's large eyes became immense. Doesn't know how to read. May I put that into my letter? Into your letter? In the interviewer. That's my paper. Oh, yes, if you like, with his name. Are you going to stay with Isabelle?' 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 a pension. She gave me no reason. The Countess listened with extreme interest. "'The reason's osman,' she pregnantly remarked. "'Isabelle ought to make a stand,' said Miss Stackpole. I'm afraid she's changed a great deal. I told her she would. I'm sorry to hear it. I hope she would have her own way. Why doesn't my brother like you?' The Countess ingenuously asked. "'I don't know, and I don't care. He's perfectly welcome not to like me. I don't want everyone to like me. I should think less of myself if some people did. A journalist can't hope to do much good unless he gets a good deal hated. That's the way he knows how his work goes on. And it's just the same for a lady. But I didn't expect it of Isabelle. "'Do you mean that she hates you?' The Countess inquired. "'I don't know. I want to see. That's what I'm going to roam 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 Stackpole went on, "'I should like to hear it beforehand, so as to decide on the line I shall take.' The Countess thrust out her underlip, and gave a gradual shrug. 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 Henrietta pensively. "'Oh, he has plenty of reasons. Nevertheless they've invited me. I'm to stay in the house.' And the Countess smiled almost fiercely. Her exultation for the moment took little account of Miss Stackpole's disappointment. This lady, however, regarded it very placidly. I shouldn't have stayed if she had asked me. That is, I think I shouldn't, and I'm glad I hadn't to make up my mind. It shouldn't have been very difficult question. I shouldn't have liked to turn away from her. And yet I shouldn't have been very happy under her roof. A pension will suit me very fine. But that's not all.' "'Rooms very good, just now,' said the Countess. "'There are all sorts of brilliant people. Did you ever hear of Lord Warburton? Hear of him. I know him very well. Do you consider him very brilliant?' Henrietta inquired. "'I don't know him, but I'm told he's extremely grand-senor.' "'He's making love to Isabelle. Making love to her. So I'm told. I don't know the detail,' said the Countess lightly. But Isabelle's pretty safe. Henrietta gazed earnestly at her companion. For a moment she said nothing. "'When do you go to Rome?' she inquired abruptly. "'Not for a week, I'm afraid. I shall go to-morrow,' Henrietta said. "'I think I'd better not wait.' "'Dear me! I'm sorry. I'm having some dresses made. I'm told Isabelle receives immensely. But I shall see you there. I shall call on you at your pension. Henrietta sat still. She was lost in thought. And suddenly the Countess cried, "'Ah! But if you don't go with me, you can't describe our journey.'" Miss Stackpole seemed unmoved by this consideration. She was thinking of something else and presently expressed it. "'I'm not 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 inquired, 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,' she added. "'The idea would be enough to prevent me,' said Miss Stackpole. "'I should want my own husband. I shouldn't want anyone else's. Do you mean that Isabelle's guilty?' And she paused a little, choosing her expression. "'Do I mean she's guilty?' "'Oh, dear, no. Not yet, I hope. I only mean that Osmond's very tiresome, and that Lord Warburton, as I hear, is a great deal at the house. I'm afraid you're scandalized.' "'No. I'm just anxious,' Henrietta said. "'Ah, you're not very complimentary to Isabelle. You should have more confidence. I'll tell you,' the Countess added quickly. "'If it will be a comfort to you, I engage to dry him off.'" Miss Stackpole answered at first, only with the deeper solemnity of her gaze. "'You don't understand me,' she said after a while. "'I haven't the idea you seem to suppose. I'm not afraid for Isabelle. In that way. I'm only afraid she's unhappy. That's what I want to get at.' The Countess gave a dozen turns of the head. She looked impatient and sarcastic. "'That may very well be, for my part. I should like to know whether Osmond is.'" Miss Stackpole had begun 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 Isabelle's unhappy, I'm very sorry for her. But I can't help it. I might tell her something that would make her 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 me, she'd have got rid of him. I'll forgive her, however. If I find she has made things hot for him. If she has simply allowed him to trample upon her, I don't know that I shall even pity her. But I don't think that's very likely. I count upon finding that if she's miserable, she has at least made him so." Henrietta got up. These seemed to her, naturally, very dreadful expectation. She honestly believed that she had no desire to see Mr. Osmond unhappy, and indeed he could not be for her the subject of a flight of fancy. She was on the whole rather disappointed in the Countess, whose mind moved in a narrower circle than she had imagined. Though, with a capacity for coarseness even there, it will be better if they loved each other, she said for edification. They can't. He can't love anyone. I presume that was the case. But it only aggravates my fear for Isabel. I shall positively start tomorrow. Isabel certainly has devotee, 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 believe that's what you came from America for, the Countess suddenly 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 a flush had come. Ah, that's very pretty. C'est bien gentile. Isn't that what they call friendship? I don't know what they call it. I thought I'd better come. She's very happy. She's very fortunate, the Countess went on. She has others beside, and then she broke out passionately. She's more fortunate than I. I'm as unhappy as she. I've a very bad husband. He's a great deal worse than Osmond, and I've no friends. I thought I had, but they're gone. No one, man or woman, would do for me what you've done for her. Henrietta was touched. There was a nature in this bitter effusion. She gazed at her companion a moment, and then, Look here, Countess. I'll do anything for you that you like. I'll wait over and travel with you. Never mind, the Countess answered with a quick change of tone. Only describe me in the newspaper. Henrietta, before leaving her, however, was obliged to make her understand that she could give no fictitious representation of her journey to Rome. Miss Stackpole was a strictly voracious reporter. On quitting her she took the way to the Lung Arno. The sunny cave beside the Yellow River where the bright-faced stents familiar to Tura stand all in a row. She had learned her way before this through the streets of Florence. She was very quick in such matters, and was therefore able to turn with great decision a step out of the little square which forms the approach to the bridge of the Holy Trinity. She proceeded to the left toward the Ponte Vecchio and stopped in front of one of the hotels which overlooked that delightful structure. Here she drew forth a small pocket-book, took from it a card and a pencil, and, after meditating a moment, wrote a few words. It is our privilege to look over her shoulder, and, if we exercise it, we may read the brief query. Could I see you this evening for a few moments on a very important matter? Henrietta added that she should start on the morrow for Rome. Armed with this little document she approached the porter, who had now taken up his station in the doorway and asked if Mr. Goodwood were at home. The porter replied, as porters always reply, that he had gone out about twenty minutes before, whereupon Henrietta presented her card and begged it might be handed to him on his return. She left the inn and pursued her course along the quay to the severe portico of the Euphesie, through which she presently reached the entrance of the famous gallery of paintings, making her way in. She ascended the high staircase, which leads to the upper chambers. The long corridor, glazed on one side, and decorated with antique busts, which gives admission to these apartments, presented an empty vista in which the bright winter light twinkled upon the marble floor. The gallery is very cold, and during the mid-winter weeks but scannily visited. Miss Stackpole may appear more ardent in her quest of artistic beauty than she has hitherto struck us as being, but she had, after all, her preferences and admirations. One of the latter was the little coragio of the tree-bewn, the virgin kneeling down before the sacred infant, who lies in a litter of straw and clapping her hands to him while he delightedly laughs and crows. Henrietta had a special devotion to this intimate scene. She thought it the most beautiful picture in the world, on her way, at present, from New York to Rome. She was spending but three days in Florence, and yet reminded herself that they must not elapse without her paying another visit to her favorite work of art. She had a great sense of beauty in all ways, and it involved a good many intellectual obligations. She was about to turn into the Tribune when a gentleman came out of it, whereupon she gave a little exclamation and stood before Casper Goodwood. I've just been at your hotel, she said. I left a card for you. I'm very much honored, Casper Goodwood answered, as if he really meant it. It was not to honor you I did it. I've called on you before, and I know you don't like it. It was to talk to you a little about something. He looked for a moment at the buckle in her hat. I shall be very glad to hear what you wish to say. You don't like to talk with me, said Henrietta, but I don't care for that. I don't talk to you for your amusement. I wrote a word to ask you to come and see me, but since I've met you here, this will do as well. I was just going away, Goodwood stated, but of course I'll stop. He was civil, but not enthusiastic. Henrietta, however, never looked for great professions, and she was so much in earnest that she was thankful he would listen to her on any terms. She asked him first, nonetheless, if he 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 the Tribune, and he slowly accompanied her. I suppose I've seen it, but I didn't know it was yours. I don't remember pictures, especially that sort. She had pointed out her favorite work, and he asked her if it was about Correggio she wished to talk with him. No, said Henrietta, it's about something less harmonious. They had the small, brilliant room, a splendid cabinet of treasures, to themselves. There was only a custodia hovering around the Medici and Venus. I want you to do me a favor, Miss Stackpole went on. Casper Goodwood frowned a little, but he expressed no embarrassment at the sense of not looking eager. His face was that of a much older man than of our earlier friend. I'm not sure it's something I shan't like, he said rather loudly. No, I don't think you'll like it. If you did, it would be no favor. Well, let's hear it. He went on in the tone of a man quite conscious of his patience. You may say there's no particular reason why you should do me a favor. I only know of one, the fact that if you'd let me, I'd gladly do one for you. Her soft exact tone, in which there was no attempted effect, had an extreme sincerity, and her companion, though he presented rather a hard surface, couldn't help being touched by it. When he was touched he rarely showed it, however, by the usual signs. He neither blushed, nor looked away, nor looked conscious. He only fixed his attention more directly. He seemed to consider with added firmness. Henrietta continued, therefore, disinterestedly, without the sense of an advantage. I may say now, indeed it seems a good time, that if I've ever annoyed you, and I think sometimes I have, it's because I knew I was willing to suffer annoyance for you. I've troubled you, doubtless, but I'd take trouble for you. Woodward 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 around. Otherwise I shouldn't have come so far as this. That's why I stayed in Paris two months. I was thinking it over. I'm afraid you decided as you liked. You decided it was best because you were so much attracted. Best for whom do you mean, Goodwood demanded? Well, for yourself first. For Mr. 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. Osmond. 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 disconcended. 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. How do you know what I care for? He cried with a big blush. Just now I care to go to Rome. Henrietta looked at him in silence, with a sad yet luminous expression. Well, she observed at last. I only wanted to tell you what I think. I had it on my mind. Of course you think it's none of my business, but nothing is anyone's business on that principle. It's very kind of you. I'm greatly obliged to you for your interest, said Casper Goodwood. I shall go to Rome, and I shan't hurt Mrs. Osmond. You won't hurt her, perhaps. But will you help her? That's the real issue. Is she in need of help, he asked slowly, with a penetrating look? Most women always are, said Henrietta, with conscientious evasiveness and generalizing less hopefully than usual. If you go to Rome, she added, I hope you'll be a true friend, not a selfish one. And she turned off and began to look at the pictures. Casper Goodwood let her go, and stood watching her while she wandered around the room. But after a moment he rejoined her. You've heard something about her here. He then resumed, I should like to know what you've heard. Henrietta had never pervaricated in her life, and though in this occasion there might have been a fitness in doing so, she decided, after thinking some minutes, to make no superficial exception. Yes, I've heard she answered, but as I don't want you to go to Rome, I won't tell you. Just as you please, I shall see for myself, he said. Then, inconsistently 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? Tomorrow, 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 this advantage was not of the same character as Gilbert O's Mons, but it had at this moment an equal distinction. It was rather a tribute to Miss Stackpole's virtue than a reference to her faults. He thought her very remarkable, very brilliant, and he had, in theory, no objection to the class to which she belonged. Lady Correspondents appeared to him a part of the natural scheme of things in a progressive country, and though he never read their letters, he supposed that they ministered somehow to social prosperity. But it was this very eminence of their position that made him wish Miss Stackpole didn't take so much for granted. She took for granted that he was always ready for some allusion to Mrs. O's Mons. He'd done so when they met in Paris six weeks after his arrival in Europe, and she had repeated the assumption with every successive opportunity. He had no wish, whatever, to allude to Mrs. O's Mons. He was not always thinking of her. He was perfectly sure of that. He was the most reserved, the least colloquial of men, and this inquiring authorist was constantly flashing her lantern into the quiet 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, he just now made other reflections which show how widely different in effect his ill humor was from Gilbert O's Mons. He desired to go immediately to Rome. He would have liked to go alone, in the night train. He hated the European railway carriages, in which one sat for hours in a vice, knee-to-knee, and nose-to-nose, with a foreigner to whom one presently found oneself objecting with all the added vehemence of one's wish to have the window open. And if they were worse at night, even then by day, at least at night, one could sleep and dream of an American saloon car. But he couldn't take the night train when Miss Stackpole was starting in the morning. It struck him that this would be an insult to an unprotected woman. Or could he wait until after she had gone, unless he should wait longer than he had patience for? It wouldn't do to start the next day. She worried him. She oppressed him. The idea of spending the day in a European railway carriage with her offered a complication of irritations. Still, she was a lady traveling alone. It was his duty to put himself out for her. There could be no two questions about that. It was perfectly clear necessity. He looked extremely grave for some moments, and then said, wholly without the flourish of gallantry, but in a tone of extreme distinctness, of course, if you're going to-morrow, I'll go too, as I may be of assistance to you. Well, Mr. Goodwood, I should hope so. Henrietta returned imperturbably.