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world whether I do right or wrong!’
‘You’re a capital person to advise,’ said Ralph; ‘you take
the wind out of my sails!’
She looked at him as if she had not heard him—though
she was following out the train of reflexion which he himself
had kindled. ‘I try to care more about the world than about
myself—but I always come back to myself. It’s because I’m
afraid.’ She stopped; her voice had trembled a little. ‘Yes,
I’m afraid; I can’t tell you. A large fortune means freedom,
and I’m afraid of that. It’s such a fine thing, and one should
make such a good use of it. If one shouldn’t one would be
ashamed. And one must keep thinking; it’s a constant effort.
I’m not sure it’s not a greater happiness to be powerless.’
‘For weak people I’ve no doubt it’s a greater happiness.
For weak people the effort not to be contemptible must be
great.’
‘And how do you know I’m not weak?’ Isabel asked.
‘Ah,’ Ralph answered with a flush that the girl noticed, ‘if
you are I’m awfully sold!’
The charm of the Mediterranean coast only deepened
for our heroine on acquaintance, for it was the threshold of
Italy, the gate of admirations. Italy, as yet imperfectly seen
and felt, stretched before her as a land of promise, a land in
which a love of the beautiful might be comforted by endless
knowledge. Whenever she strolled upon the shore with her
cousin—and she was the companion of his daily walk—she
looked across the sea, with longing eyes, to where she knew
that Genoa lay. She was glad to pause, however, on the edge
of this larger adventure; there was such a thrill even in the

314 The Portrait of a Lady