he'll be
pleased?"

"The girl herself? Delighted, surely."

"No, no; I mean Mrs. Osmond."

Ralph looked at him a moment. "My dear fellow, what has she to do with
it?"

"Whatever she chooses. She's very fond of Pansy."

"Very true--very true." And Ralph slowly got up. "It's an interesting
question--how far her fondness for Pansy will carry her." He stood there
a moment with his hands in his pockets and rather a clouded brow. "I
hope, you know, that you're very--very sure. The deuce!" he broke off.
"I don't know how to say it."

"Yes, you do; you know how to say everything."

"Well, it's awkward. I hope you're sure that among Miss Osmond's merits
her being--a--so near her stepmother isn't a leading one?"

"Good heavens, Touchett!" cried Lord Warburton angrily, "for what do you
take me?"

CHAPTER XL

Isabel had not seen much of Madame Merle since her marriage, this lady
having indulged in frequent absences from Rome. At one time she had
spent six months in England; at another she had passed a portion of a
winter in Paris. She had made numerous visits to distant friends and
gave countenance to the idea that for the future she should be a less
inveterate Roman than in the past. As she had been inveterate in the
past only in the sense of constantly having an apartment in one of
the sunniest niches of the Pincian--an apartment which often stood
empty--this suggested a prospect of almost constant absence; a
danger which Isabel at one period had been much inclined to deplore.
Familiarity had modified in some degree her first impression of Madame
Merle, but it had not essentially altered it; there was still much
wonder of admiration in it. That personage was armed at all points; it
was a pleasure to see a character so completely equipped for the social
battle. She carried her flag discreetly, but her weapons were polished
steel, and she used them with a skill which struck Isabel as more
and more that of a veteran. She was never weary, never overcome with
disgust; she never appeared to need rest or consolation. She had her own
ideas; she had of old exposed a great many of them to Isabel, who
knew also that under an appearance of extreme self-control her
highly-cultivated friend concealed a rich sensibility. But her will was
mistress of her life; there was something gallant in the way she kept
going. It was as if she had learned the secret of it--as if the art of
life were some clever trick she had guessed. Isabel