Page 289 - the-portrait-of-a-lady

was not fastened. She had placed herself in a deep window-
bench, from which she looked out into the dull, damp park;
and as the library stood at right angles to the entrance-front
of the house she could see the doctor’s brougham, which
had been waiting for the last two hours before the door. She
was struck with his remaining so long, but at last she saw
him appear in the portico, stand a moment slowly draw-
ing on his gloves and looking at the knees of his horse, and
then get into the vehicle and roll away. Isabel kept her place
for half an hour; there was a great stillness in the house.
It was so great that when she at last heard a soft, slow step
on the deep carpet of the room she was almost startled by
the sound. She turned quickly away from the window and
saw Ralph Touchett standing there with his hands still in
his pockets, but with a face absolutely void of its usual la-
tent smile. She got up and her movement and glance were
a question.
‘It’s all over,’ said Ralph.
‘Do you mean that my uncle-?’ And Isabel stopped.
‘My dear father died an hour ago.’
‘Ah, my poor Ralph!’ she gently wailed, putting out her
two hands to him.

289