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effort. ‘Good enough for anything that I’ve done with my-
self? I suppose that’s what you mean.’
‘Good enough to be always charming!’ Osmond ex-
claimed, smiling too.
‘Oh God!’ his companion murmured; and, sitting there
in her ripe freshness, she had recourse to the same gesture
she had provoked on Isabel’s part in the morning: she bent
her face and covered it with her hands.
‘Are you going to weep after all?’ Osmond asked; and on
her remaining motionless he went on:
‘Have I ever complained to you?’
She dropped her hand quickly. ‘No, you’ve taken your re-
venge otherwise-you have taken it on her.’
Osmond threw back his head further; he looked a while
at the ceiling and might have been supposed to be appeal-
ing, in an informal way, to the heavenly powers. ‘Oh, the
imagination of women! It’s always vulgar, at bottom. You
talk of revenge like a third-rate novelist.’
‘Of course you haven’t complained. You’ve enjoyed your
triumph too much.’
‘I’m rather curious to know what you call my triumph.’
‘You’ve made your wife afraid of you.’
Osmond changed his position; he leaned forward, resting
his elbows on his knees and looking a while at a beautiful
old Persian rug, at his feet. He had an air of refusing to ac-
cept any one’s valuation of anything, even of time, and of
preferring to abide by his own; a peculiarity which made
him at moments an irritating person to converse with. ‘Isa-
bel’s not afraid of me, and it’s not what I wish,’ he said at

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