Page 688 - the-portrait-of-a-lady

sort-the intimate disarray of her affairs. Deep in her breast
she believed that he had invested his all in her happiness,
while the others had invested only a part. He was one more
person from whom she should have to conceal her stress.
She was reassured, however, after he arrived in Rome, for he
spent several days without coming to see her.
Henrietta Stackpole, it may well be imagined, was much
more punctual, and Isabel was largely favoured with the so-
ciety of her friend. She threw herself into it, for now that
she had made such a point of keeping her conscience clear,
that was one way of proving she had not been superficial-
the more so as the years, in their flight, had rather enriched
than blighted those peculiarities which had been humor-
ously criticized by persons less interested than Isabel, and
which were still marked enough to give loyalty a spice of
heroism. Henrietta was as keen and quick and fresh as ever,
and as neat and bright and fair. Her remarkably open eyes,
lighted like great glazed railway-stations, had put up no
shutters; her attire had lost none of its crispness, her opin-
ions none of their national reference. She was by no means
quite unchanged, however; it struck Isabel she had grown
vague. Of old she had never been vague; though undertak-
ing many enquiries at once, she had managed to be entire
and pointed about each. She had a reason for everything
she did; she fairly bristled with motives. Formerly, when she
came to Europe it was because she wished to see it, but now,
having already seen it, she had no such excuse. She didn’t
for a moment pretend that the desire to examine decaying
civilizations had anything to do with her present enterprise;

688 The Portrait of a Lady