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Madame Merle waited. ‘It will amuse you.’ There was
nothing crude in this rejoinder; it had been thoroughly well
considered.
‘If you say that, you know, I believe it,’ said Osmond,
coming toward her. ‘There are some points in which my
confidence in you is complete. I’m perfectly aware, for in-
stance, that you know good society from bad.’
‘Society is all bad.’
‘Pardon me. That isn’t—the knowledge I impute to you—a
common sort of wisdom. You’ve gained it in the right way—
experimentally; you’ve compared an immense number of
more or less impossible people with each other.’
‘Well, I invite you to profit by my knowledge.’
‘To profit? Are you very sure that I shall?’
‘It’s what I hope. It will depend on yourself. If I could
only induce you to make an effort!’
‘Ah, there you are! I knew something tiresome was com-
ing. What in the world—that’s likely to turn up here—is
worth an effort?’
Madame Merle flushed as with a wounded intention.
‘Don’t be foolish, Osmond. No one knows better than you
what is worth an effort. Haven’t I seen you in old days?’
‘I recognize some things. But they’re none of them prob-
able in this poor life.’
‘It’s the effort that makes them probable,’ said Madame
Merle.
‘There’s something in that. Who then is your friend?’
‘The person I came to Florence to see. She’s a niece of
Mrs. Touchett, whom you’ll not have forgotten.’

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