Page 117 - the-portrait-of-a-lady

ed by Miss Stackpole’s gracious and comfortable aspect,
which hinted that it wouldn’t be so easy as he had assumed
to disapprove of her. She rustled, she shimmered, in fresh,
dove-coloured draperies, and Ralph saw at a glance that
she was as crisp and new and comprehensive as a first is-
sue before the folding. From top to toe she had probably no
misprint. She spoke in a clear, high voice—a voice not rich
but loud; yet after she had taken her place with her com-
panions in Mr. Touchett’s carriage she struck him as not all
in the large type, the type of horrid ‘headings,’ that he had
expected. She answered the enquiries made of her by Isabel,
however, and in which the young man ventured to join, with
copious lucidity; and later, in the library at Gardencourt,
when she had made the acquaintance of Mr. Touchett (his
wife not having thought it necessary to appear) did more to
give the measure of her confidence in her powers.
‘Well, I should like to know whether you consider your-
selves American or English,’ she broke out. ‘If once I knew I
could talk to you accordingly.’
‘Talk to us anyhow and we shall be thankful,’ Ralph lib-
erally answered.
She fixed her eyes on him, and there was something in
their character that reminded him of large polished but-
tons—buttons that might have fixed the elastic loops of
some tense receptacle: he seemed to see the reflection of
surrounding objects on the pupil. The expression of a but-
ton is not usually deemed human, but there was something
in Miss Stackpole’s gaze that made him, as a very modest
man, feel vaguely embarrassed—less inviolate, more dish-

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