got up, standing before the fire
with his hands behind him. "Well, I hold that it lies in your hands. I
shall leave it there. With a little good-will you may manage it. Think
that over and remember how much I count on you." He waited a little,
to give her time to answer; but she answered nothing, and he presently
strolled out of the room.

CHAPTER XLII

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 leaned 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.
A 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 accompanies 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? Isabel 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?
Isabel 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 i