LITMIR.BIZ

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friends were her own affair and that she had never undertaken to like them all or to restrict the girl to those she liked.

      “If you could see none but the people I like, my dear, you’d have a very small society,” Mrs. Touchett frankly admitted; “and I don’t think I like any man or woman well enough to recommend them to you. When it comes to recommending it’s a serious affair. I don’t like Miss Stackpole — everything about her displeases me; she talks so much too loud and looks at one as if one wanted to look at her — which one doesn’t. I’m sure she has lived all her life in a boarding-house, and I detest the manners and the liberties of such places. If you ask me if I prefer my own manners, which you doubtless think very bad, I’ll tell you that I prefer them immensely. Miss Stackpole knows I detest boarding-house civilisation, and she detests me for detesting it, because she thinks it the highest in the world. She’d like Gardencourt a great deal better if it were a boarding-house. For me, I find it almost too much of one! We shall never get on together therefore, and there’s no use trying.”

      Mrs. Touchett was right in guessing that Henrietta disapproved of her, but she had not quite put her finger on the reason. A day or two after Miss Stackpole’s arrival she had made some invidious reflexions on American hotels, which excited a vein of counter-argument on the part of the correspondent of the Interviewer, who in the exercise of her profession had acquainted herself, in the western world, with every form of caravansary. Henrietta expressed the opinion that American hotels were the best in the world, and Mrs. Touchett, fresh from a renewed struggle with them, recorded a conviction that they were the worst. Ralph, with his experimental geniality, suggested, by way of healing the breach, that the truth lay between the two extremes and that the establishments in question ought to be described as fair middling. This contribution to the discussion, however, Miss Stackpole rejected with scorn. Middling indeed! If they were not the best in the world they were the worst, but there was nothing middling about an American hotel.

      “We judge from different points of view, evidently,” said Mrs. Touchett. “I like to be treated as an individual; you like to be treated as a ‘party.’”

      “I don’t know what you mean,” Henrietta replied. “I like to be treated 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 chambermaid and the negro waiter. They share their work.”

      “Do you call the domestics in an American household ‘slaves’?” Miss Stackpole enquired. “If that’s the way you desire to treat them, no wonder you don’t like America.”

      “If you’ve not good servants you’re miserable,” Mrs. Touchett serenely said. “They’re very bad in America, but I’ve five perfect ones in Florence.”

      “I don’t see what you want with five,” Henrietta couldn’t help observing. “I don’t think I should like to see five persons surrounding me in that menial position.”

      “I like them in that position better than in some others,” proclaimed Mrs. Touchett with much meaning.

      “Should you like me better if I were your butler, dear?” her husband 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 compliment. Miss Stackpole was baffled; she evidently thought there was something treasonable in Mrs. Touchett’s appreciation of a class which she privately judged to be a mysterious survival of feudalism. It was perhaps because her mind was oppressed with this image that she suffered some days to elapse before she took occasion to say to Isabel: “My dear friend, I wonder if you’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’ve never asked me what it is. Is it because you’ve suspected?”

      “Suspected what? As a rule I don’t think I suspect,” said Isabel.

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

      Henrietta looked disappointed, and her steady gaze betrayed it. “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.”

      “I’ve not much control of my thoughts, but I’ll do my best,” said Isabel. Henrietta gazed at her, in silence, for a period which 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 are you laughing at?” she went on. “What I mean is that Mr. Goodwood 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 a good deal.”

      Isabel waited. At the mention of Mr. Goodwood’s name she had turned a little pale. “I’m very sorry you did that,” she observed at last.

      “It was a pleasure to me, and I liked the way he listened. I could have talked a long time to such a listener; he was so quiet, 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 an ugly man look so handsome.”

      “He’s very simple-minded,” said Isabel. “And he’s not so ugly.”

      “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 with an air of great confidence. “He’ll find you changed,” the latter pursued. “You’ve been affected by your new surroundings.”

      “Very likely. I’m affected by everything.”

      “By everything but Mr. Goodwood!” Miss Stackpole exclaimed 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 handshake, when he bade me good-bye.”

      “Thank you for doing so.” And Isabel turned away.

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