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ing her. ‘You’re very indiscreet,’ she said rather wearily; you
shouldn’t have moved when I did.’
He had taken off his hat; he passed his hand over his
forehead. ‘I always forget; I’m out of the habit.’
‘You’re quite unfathomable,’ she repeated, glancing up at
the windows of the house, a modern structure in the new
part of the town.
He paid no heed to this remark, but spoke in his own
sense. ‘She’s really very charming. I’ve scarcely known any
one more graceful.’
‘It does me good to hear you say that. The better you like
her the better for me.’
‘I like her very much. She’s all you described her, and into
the bargain capable, I feel, of great devotion. She has only
one fault.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Too many ideas.’
‘I warned you she was clever.’
‘Fortunately they’re very bad ones,’ said Osmond.
‘Why is that fortunate?’
‘Dame, if they must be sacrificed!’
Madame Merle leaned back, looking straight before her;
then she spoke to the coachman. But her friend again de-
tained her. ‘If I go to Rome what shall I do with Pansy?’
‘I’ll go and see her,’ said Madame Merle.

404 The Portrait of a Lady