Page 762 - the-portrait-of-a-lady

almost clutched at this lady’s fluttering attention. ‘I’ve been
with Osmond,’ she said, while the Countess’s bright eyes
glittered at her.
‘I’m sure then he has been odious!’ the Countess cried.
‘Did he say he was glad poor Mr. Touchett’s dying?’
‘He said it’s impossible I should go to England.’
The Countess’s mind, when her interests were concerned,
was agile; she already foresaw the extinction of any further
brightness in her visit to Rome. Ralph Touchett would die,
Isabel would go into mourning, and then there would be no
more dinner-parties. Such a prospect produced for a mo-
ment in her countenance an expressive grimace; but this
rapid, picturesque play of feature was her only tribute to dis-
appointment. After all, she reflected, the game was almost
played out; she had already overstayed her invitation. And
then she cared enough for Isabel’s trouble to forget her own,
and she saw that Isabel’s trouble was deep. It seemed deeper
than the mere death of a cousin, and the Countess had no
hesitation in connecting her exasperating brother with the
expression of her sister-in-law’s eyes. Her heart beat with an
almost joyous expectation, for if she had wished to see Os-
mond overtopped the conditions looked favourable now. Of
course if Isabel should go to England she herself would im-
mediately leave Palazzo Roccanera; nothing would induce
her to remain there with Osmond. Nevertheless she felt an
immense desire to hear that Isabel would go to England.
‘Nothing’s impossible for you, my dear,’ she said caress-
ingly. ‘Why else are you rich and clever and good?’
‘Why indeed? I feel stupidly weak.’

762 The Portrait of a Lady