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friends who have lately arrived and as to whose movements
I was at that time uncertain.’
‘That reason’s characteristic. You’re always doing some-
thing for your friends.’
Madame Merle smiled straight at her host. ‘It’s less char-
acteristic than your comment upon it—which is perfectly
insincere. I don’t, however, make a crime of that,’ she added,
‘because if you don’t believe what you say there’s no reason
why you should. I don’t ruin myself for my friends; I don’t
deserve your praise. I care greatly for myself.’
‘Exactly; but yourself includes so many other selves—so
much of every one else and of everything. I never knew a
person whose life touched so many other lives.’
‘What do you call one’s life?’ asked Madame Merle.
‘One’s appearance, one’s movements, one’s engagements,
one’s society?’
‘I call your life your ambitions,’ said Osmond.
Madame Merle looked a moment at Pansy. ‘I wonder if
she understands that,’ she murmured.
‘You see she can’t stay with us!’ And Pansy’s father gave
rather a joyless smile. ‘Go into the garden, mignonne, and
pluck a flower or two for Madame Merle,’ he went on in
French.
‘That’s just what I wanted to do,’ Pansy exclaimed, ris-
ing with promptness and noiselessly departing. Her father
followed her to the open door, stood a moment watching
her, and then came back, but remained standing, or rather
strolling to and from as if to cultivate a sense of freedom
which in another attitude might be wanting.

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