at. Gilbert had never
been so deep, so just. She had told him then that from her at least he
should never know if he was right; and this was what she was taking
care of now. It gave her plenty to do; there was passion, exaltation,
religion in it. Women find their religion sometimes in strange
exercises, and Isabel at present, in playing a part before her cousin,
had an idea that she was doing him a kindness. It would have been a
kindness perhaps if he had been for a single instant a dupe. As it was,
the kindness consisted mainly in trying to make him believe that he had
once wounded her greatly and that the event had put him to shame, but
that, as she was very generous and he was so ill, she bore him no grudge
and even considerately forbore to flaunt her happiness in his face.
Ralph smiled to himself, as he lay on his sofa, at this extraordinary
form of consideration; but he forgave her for having forgiven him. She
didn't wish him to have the pain of knowing she was unhappy: that was
the great thing, and it didn't matter that such knowledge would rather
have righted him.

For herself, she lingered in the soundless saloon long after the fire
had gone out. There was no danger of her feeling the cold; she was in
a fever. She heard the small hours strike, and then the great ones, but
her vigil took no heed of time. Her mind, assailed by visions, was in a
state of extraordinary activity, and her visions might as well come to
her there, where she sat up to meet them, as on her pillow, to make a
mockery of rest. As I have said, she believed she was not defiant, and
what could be a better proof of it than that she should linger there
half the night, trying to persuade herself that there was no reason why
Pansy shouldn't be married as you would put a letter in the post-office?
When the clock struck four she got up; she was going to bed at last, for
the lamp had long since gone out and the candles burned down to their
sockets. But even then she stopped again in the middle of the room
and stood there gazing at a remembered vision--that of her husband and
Madame Merle unconsciously and familiarly associated.

CHAPTER XLIII

Three nights after this she took Pansy to a great party, to which
Osmond, who never went to dances, did not accompany them. Pansy was as
ready for a dance as ever; she was not of a generalising turn and had
not extended to other pleasures the interdict she had seen placed on
those of love. If she was bidi