Page 652 - the-portrait-of-a-lady

the quiet darkness of his soul. He wished she didn’t care so
much; he even wished, though it might seem rather bru-
tal of him, that she would leave him alone. In spite of this,
however, he just now made other reflections-which show
how widely different, in effect, his ill-humour was from Gil-
bert Osmond’s. He desired to go immediately to Rome; he
would have liked to go alone, in the night-train. He hated
the European railway-carriages, in which one sat for hours
in a vise, knee to knee and nose to nose with a foreigner to
whom one presently found one’s self objecting with all the
added vehemence of one’s wish to have the window open;
and if they were worse at night even than by day, at least at
night one could sleep and dream of an American saloon-
car. But he couldn’t take a night-train when Miss Stackpole
was starting in the morning; it struck him that this would
be an insult to an unprotected woman. Nor could he wait
until after she had gone unless he should wait longer than
he had patience for. It wouldn’t do to start the next day. She
worried him; she oppressed him; the idea of spending the
day in a European railway-carriage with her offered a com-
plication of irritations. Still, she was a lady travelling alone;
it was his duty to put himself out for her. There could be
no two questions about that; it was a perfectly clear neces-
sity. He looked extremely grave for some moments and then
said, wholly without the flourish of gallantry but in a tone of
extreme distinctness, ‘Of course if you’re going to-morrow
I’ll go too, as I may be of assistance to you.’
‘Well, Mr. Goodwood, I should hope so!’ Henrietta re-
turned imperturbably.

652 The Portrait of a Lady