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had not at present this impulse. She was too sincere, too in-
terested in her judicious companion. And then moreover
Madame Merle never said such things in the tone of tri-
umph or of boastfulness; they dropped from her like cold
confessions.
A period of bad weather had settled upon Gardencourt;
the days grew shorter and there was an end to the pretty tea-
parties on the lawn. But our young woman had long indoor
conversations with her fellow visitor, and in spite of the rain
the two ladies often sallied forth for a walk, equipped with
the defensive apparatus which the English climate and the
English genius have between them brought to such perfec-
tion. Madame Merle liked almost everything, including
the English rain. ‘There’s always a little of it and never too
much at once,’ she said; ‘and it never wets you and it always
smells good.’ She declared that in England the pleasures of
smell were great—that in this inimitable island there was a
certain mixture of fog and beer and soot which, however
odd it might sound, was the national aroma, and was most
agreeable to the nostril; and she used to lift the sleeve of
her British overcoat and bury her nose in it, inhaling the
clear, fine scent of the wool. Poor Ralph Touchett, as soon
as the autumn had begun to define itself, became almost a
prisoner; in bad weather he was unable to step out of the
house, and he used sometimes to stand at one of the win-
dows with his hands in his pockets and, from a countenance
half-rueful, half-critical, watch Isabel and Madame Merle
as they walked down the avenue under a pair of umbrel-
las. The roads about Gardencourt were so firm, even in the

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