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her rather uneasy. With the dispersal of the little group he
disappeared, and the only person who came to speak to
her-though several spoke to Mrs. Touchett-was Henrietta
Stackpole. Henrietta had been crying.
Ralph had said to Isabel that he hoped she would remain
at Gardencourt, and she made no immediate motion to
leave the place. She said to herself that it was but common
charity to stay a little with her aunt. It was fortunate she had
so good a formula; otherwise she might have been greatly
in want of one. Her errand was over; she had done what
she had left her husband to do. She had a husband in a for-
eign city, counting the hours of her absence; in such a case
one needed an excellent motive. He was not one of the best
husbands, but that didn’t alter the case. Certain obligations
were involved in the very fact of marriage, and were quite
independent of the quantity of enjoyment extracted from it.
Isabel thought of her husband as little as might be; but now
that she was at a distance, beyond its spell, she thought with
a kind of spiritual shudder of Rome. There was a penetrat-
ing chill in the image, and she drew back into the deepest
shade of Gardencourt. She lived from day to day, postpon-
ing, closing her eyes, trying not to think. She knew she must
decide, but she decided nothing; her coming itself had not
been a decision. On that occasion she had simply started.
Osmond gave no sound and now evidently would give none;
he would leave it all to her. From Pansy she heard noth-
ing, but that was very simple: her father had told her not to
write.
Mrs. Touchett accepted Isabel’s company, but offered her

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