LITMIR.BIZ

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that’s the great thing,” said Isabel, smiling and suspecting that her acquaintance with this lightly flitting personage would not lead to intellectual repose. If the Countess objected to argument Isabel at this moment had as little taste for it, and she put out her hand to Pansy with a pleasant sense that such a gesture committed her to nothing that would admit of a divergence of views. Gilbert Osmond apparently took a rather hopeless view of his sister’s tone; he turned the conversation to another topic. He presently sat down on the other side of his daughter, who had shyly brushed Isabel’s fingers with her own; but he ended by drawing her out of her chair and making her stand between his knees, leaning against him while he passed his arm round her slimness. The child fixed her eyes on Isabel with a still, disinterested gaze which seemed void of an intention, yet conscious of an attraction. Mr. Osmond talked of many things; Madame Merle had said he could be agreeable when he chose, and to-day, after a little, he appeared not only to have chosen but to have determined. Madame Merle and the Countess Gemini sat a little apart, conversing in the effortless manner of persons who knew each other well enough to take their ease; but every now and then Isabel heard the Countess, at something said by her companion, plunge into the latter’s lucidity as a poodle splashes after a thrown stick. It was as if Madame Merle were seeing how far she would go. Mr. Osmond talked of Florence, of Italy, of the pleasure of living in that country and of the abatements to the pleasure. There were both satisfactions and drawbacks; the drawbacks were numerous; strangers were too apt to see such a world as all romantic. It met the case soothingly for the human, for the social failure — by which he meant the people who couldn’t “realise,” as they said, on their sensibility: they could keep it about them there, in their poverty, without ridicule, as you might keep an heirloom or an inconvenient entailed place that brought you in nothing. Thus there were advantages in living in the country which contained the greatest sum of beauty. Certain impressions you could get only there. Others, favourable to life, you never got, and you got some that were very bad. But from time to time you got one of a quality that made up for everything. Italy, all the same, had spoiled a great many people; he was even fatuous enough to believe at times that he himself might have been a better man if he had spent less of his life there. It made one idle and dilettantish and second-rate; it had no discipline for the character, didn’t cultivate in you, otherwise expressed, the successful social and other “cheek” that flourished in Paris and London. “We’re sweetly provincial,” said Mr. Osmond, “and I’m perfectly aware that I myself am as rusty as a key that has no lock to fit it. It polishes me up a little to talk with you — not that I venture to pretend I can turn that very complicated lock I suspect your intellect of being! But you’ll be going away before I’ve seen you three times, and I shall perhaps never see you after that. That’s what it is to live in a country that people come to. When they’re disagreeable here it’s bad enough; when they’re agreeable it’s still worse. As soon as you like them they’re off again! I’ve been deceived too often; I’ve ceased to form attachments, to permit myself to feel attractions. You mean to stay — to settle? That would be really comfortable. Ah yes, your aunt’s a sort of guarantee; I believe she may be depended on. Oh, she’s an old Florentine; I mean literally an old one; not a modern outsider. She’s a contemporary of the Medici; she must have been present at the burning of Savonarola, and I’m not sure she didn’t throw a handful of chips into the flame. Her face is very much like some faces in the early pictures; little, dry, definite faces that must have had a good deal of expression, but almost always the same one. Indeed I can show you her portrait in a fresco of Ghirlandaio’s. I hope you don’t object to my speaking that way of your aunt, eh? I’ve an idea you don’t. Perhaps you think that’s even worse. I assure you there’s no want of respect in it, to either of you. You know I’m a particular admirer of Mrs. Touchett.”

      While Isabel’s host exerted himself to entertain her in this somewhat confidential fashion she looked occasionally at Madame Merle, who met her eyes with an inattentive smile in which, on this occasion, there was no infelicitous intimation that our heroine appeared to advantage. Madame Merle eventually proposed to the Countess Gemini that they should go into the garden, and the Countess, rising and shaking out her feathers, began to rustle toward the door. “Poor Miss Archer!” she exclaimed, surveying the other group with expressive compassion. “She has been brought quite into the family.”

      “Miss Archer can certainly have nothing but sympathy for a family to which you belong,” Mr. Osmond answered, with a laugh which, though it had something of a mocking ring, had also a finer patience.

      “I don’t know what you mean by that! I’m sure she’ll see no harm in me but what you tell her. I’m better than he says, Miss Archer,” the Countess went on. “I’m only rather an idiot and a bore. Is that all he has said? Ah then, you keep him in good-humour. Has he opened on one of his favourite subjects? I give you notice that there are two or three that he treats a fond. In that case you had better take off your bonnet.”

      “I don’t think I know what Mr. Osmond’s favourite subjects are,” said Isabel, who had risen to her feet.

      The Countess assumed for an instant an attitude of intense meditation, pressing one of her hands, with the finger-tips gathered together, to her forehead. “I’ll tell you in a moment. One’s Machiavelli; the other’s Vittoria Colonna; the next is Metastasio.”

      “Ah, with me,” said Madame Merle, passing her arm into the Countess Gemini’s as if to guide her course to the garden, “Mr. Osmond’s never so historical.”

      “Oh you,” the Countess answered as they moved away, “you yourself are Machiavelli — you yourself are Vittoria Colonna!”

      “We shall hear next that poor Madame Merle is Metastasio!” Gilbert Osmond resignedly sighed.

      Isabel had got up on the assumption that they too were to go into the garden; but her host stood there with no apparent inclination to leave the room, his hands in the pockets of his jacket and his daughter, who had now locked her arm into one of his own, clinging to him and looking up while her eyes moved from his own face to Isabel’s. Isabel waited, with a certain unuttered contentedness, to have her movements directed; she liked Mr. Osmond’s talk, his company: she had what always gave her a very private thrill, the consciousness of a new relation. Through the open doors of the great room she saw Madame Merle and the Countess stroll across the fine grass of the garden; then she turned, and her eyes wandered over the things scattered about her. The understanding had been that Mr. Osmond should show her his treasures; his pictures and cabinets all looked like treasures. Isabel after a moment went toward one of the pictures to see it better; but just as she had done so he said to her abruptly: “Miss Archer, what do you think of my sister?”

      She faced him with some surprise. “Ah, don’t ask me that — I’ve seen your sister too little.”

      “Yes, you’ve seen her very little; but you must have observed that there is not a great deal of her to see. What do you think of our family tone?” he went on with his cool smile. “I should like to know how it strikes a fresh, unprejudiced mind. I know what you’re going to say — you’ve had almost no observation of it. Of course this is only a glimpse. But just take notice, in future, if you have a chance. I sometimes think we’ve got into a rather bad way, living off here among things and people not our own, without responsibilities or attachments, with nothing to hold us together or keep us up; marrying foreigners, forming artificial tastes, playing tricks with our natural mission. Let me add, though, that I say that much more for myself than for my sister. She’s a very honest lady — more so than she seems. She’s rather unhappy, and as she’s not of a serious turn she doesn’t tend to show it tragically: she shows it comically instead. She has got a horrid husband, though I’m not sure she makes the best of him. Of course, however, a horrid husband’s an awkward thing. Madame Merle gives her excellent advice, but it’s a good deal like giving a child a dictionary to learn a language with. He can look out the words, but he can’t put them together. My sister needs a grammar, but unfortunately she’s not grammatical. Pardon my troubling you with these details; my sister was very right in saying you’ve been taken into the family. Let me take down that picture; you want more light.”

      He took down the picture, carried it toward the window, related some curious facts about it. She looked at

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