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have pleased her more. It had always been her faith that at
bottom Ralph and this young woman were made to un-
derstand each other. ‘I don’t care whether he understands
me or not,’ Henrietta declared. ‘The great thing is that he
shouldn’t die in the cars.’
‘He won’t do that,’ Isabel said, shaking her head with an
extension of faith.
‘He won’t if I can help it. I see you want us all to go. I
don’t know what you want to do.’
‘I want to be alone,’ said Isabel.
‘You won’t be that so long as you’ve so much company
at home.’
‘Ah, they’re part of the comedy. You others are specta-
tors.’
‘Do you call it a comedy, Isabel Archer?’ Henrietta rather
grimly asked.
‘The tragedy then if you like. You’re all looking at me; it
makes me uncomfortable.’
Henrietta engaged in this act for a while. ‘You’re like the
stricken deer, seeking the innermost shade. Oh, you do give
me such a sense of helplessness!’ she broke out.
‘I’m not at all helpless. There are many things I mean to
do.’
‘It’s not you I’m speaking of; it’s myself. It’s too much,
having come on purpose, to leave you just as I find you.’
‘You don’t do that; you leave me much refreshed,’ Isabel
said.
‘Very mild refreshment-sour lemonade! I want you to
promise me something.’

708 The Portrait of a Lady