Page 614 - the-portrait-of-a-lady

ing screens. It lived before her again-it had never had time
to die-that morning in the garden at Florence when he had
warned her against Osmond. She had only to close her eyes
to see the place, to hear his voice, to feel the warm, sweet air.
How could he have known? What a mystery, what a wonder
of wisdom! As intelligent as Gilbert? He was much more
intelligent-to arrive at such a judgement as that. 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 had now. It gave her plenty
to do; there was passion, exaltation, religion in it. Wom-
en 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 feel-
ing the cold; she was in a fever. She heard the small hours

614 The Portrait of a Lady