hesitating a little, "you seem never to have
cared for another."

"How do you know what I care for?" he cried with a big blush. "Just now
I care to go to Rome."

Henrietta looked at him in silence, with a sad yet luminous expression.
"Well," she observed at last, "I only wanted to tell you what I think;
I had it on my mind. Of course you think it's none of my business. But
nothing is any one's business, on that principle."

"It's very kind of you; I'm greatly obliged to you for your interest,"
said Caspar Goodwood. "I shall go to Rome and I shan't hurt Mrs.
Osmond."

"You won't hurt her, perhaps. But will you help her?--that's the real
issue."

"Is she in need of help?" he asked slowly, with a penetrating look.

"Most women always are," said Henrietta, with conscientious evasiveness
and generalising less hopefully than usual. "If you go to Rome," she
added, "I hope you'll be a true friend--not a selfish one!" And she
turned off and began to look at the pictures.

Caspar Goodwood let her go and stood watching her while she wandered
round the room; but after a moment he rejoined her. "You've heard
something about her here," he then resumed. "I should like to know what
you've heard."

Henrietta had never prevaricated in her life, and, though on this
occasion there might have been a fitness in doing so, she decided, after
thinking some minutes, to make no superficial exception. "Yes, I've
heard," she answered; "but as I don't want you to go to Rome I won't
tell you."

"Just as you please. I shall see for myself," he said. Then
inconsistently, for him, "You've heard she's unhappy!" he added.

"Oh, you won't see that!" Henrietta exclaimed.

"I hope not. When do you start?"

"To-morrow, by the evening train. And you?"

Goodwood hung back; he had no desire to make his journey to Rome in Miss
Stackpole's company. His indifference to this advantage was not of the
same character as Gilbert Osmond's, but it had at this moment an equal
distinctness. It was rather a tribute to Miss Stackpole's virtues than a
reference to her faults. He thought her very remarkable, very brilliant,
and he had, in theory, no objection to the class to which she belonged.
Lady correspondents appeared to him a part of the natural scheme of
things in a progressive country, and though he never read their letters
he supposed that they ministered somehow to social prosperity. But
it was this very eminence of their position that made him wish