pat his forehead with his handkerchief; he
had never been so uncomfortable. She was such a perfect jeune fille, and
one couldn't make of a jeune fille the enquiry requisite for throwing
light on such a point. A jeune fille was what Rosier had always dreamed
of--a jeune fille who should yet not be French, for he had felt that
this nationality would complicate the question. He was sure Pansy had
never looked at a newspaper and that, in the way of novels, if she
had read Sir Walter Scott it was the very most. An American jeune
fille--what could be better than that? She would be frank and gay, and
yet would not have walked alone, nor have received letters from men,
nor have been taken to the theatre to see the comedy of manners. Rosier
could not deny that, as the matter stood, it would be a breach of
hospitality to appeal directly to this unsophisticated creature; but
he was now in imminent danger of asking himself if hospitality were
the most sacred thing in the world. Was not the sentiment that he
entertained for Miss Osmond of infinitely greater importance? Of greater
importance to him--yes; but not probably to the master of the house.
There was one comfort; even if this gentleman had been placed on his
guard by Madame Merle he would not have extended the warning to Pansy;
it would not have been part of his policy to let her know that a
prepossessing young man was in love with her. But he WAS in love
with her, the prepossessing young man; and all these restrictions of
circumstance had ended by irritating him. What had Gilbert Osmond meant
by giving him two fingers of his left hand? If Osmond was rude, surely
he himself might be bold. He felt extremely bold after the dull girl
in so vain a disguise of rose-colour had responded to the call of her
mother, who came in to say, with a significant simper at Rosier, that
she must carry her off to other triumphs. The mother and daughter
departed together, and now it depended only upon him that he should be
virtually alone with Pansy. He had never been alone with her before;
he had never been alone with a jeune fille. It was a great moment; poor
Rosier began to pat his forehead again. There was another room beyond
the one in which they stood--a small room that had been thrown open and
lighted, but that, the company not being numerous, had remained empty
all the evening. It was empty yet; it was upholstered in pale yellow;
there were several lamps; through the open door it looked the