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his too zealous benefactress, and what expression must they
have found on the part of such a master of irony? It is a sin-
gular, but a characteristic, fact that before Isabel returned
from her silent drive she had broken its silence by the soft
exclamation:
‘Poor, poor Madame Merle!’
Her compassion would perhaps have been justified if on
this same afternoon she had been concealed behind one
of the valuable curtains of time-softened damask which
dressed the interesting little salon of the lady to whom it re-
ferred; the carefully-arranged apartment to which we once
paid a visit in company with the discreet Mr. Rosier. In that
apartment, towards six o’clock, Gilbert Osmond was seat-
ed, and his hostess stood before him as Isabel had seen her
stand on an occasion commemorated in this history with
an emphasis appropriate not so much to its apparent as to
its real importance.
‘I don’t believe you’re unhappy; I believe you like it,’ said
Madame Merle.
‘Did I say I was unhappy?’ Osmond asked with a face
grave enough to suggest that he might have been.
‘No, but you don’t say the contrary, as you ought in com-
mon gratitude.’
‘Don’t talk about gratitude,’ he returned dryly. ‘And don’t
aggravate me,’ he added in a moment.
Madame Merle slowly seated herself, with her arms fold-
ed and her white hands arranged as a support to one of them
and an ornament, as it were, to the other. She looked exqui-
sitely calm but impressively sad. ‘On your side, don’t try to

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