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‘Well enough for all the use I have for him.’
‘And how much of a use is that?’
‘Well, I like to like him.’
‘‘Liking to like’—why, it makes a passion!’ said Osmond.
‘No’—she considered—‘keep that for liking to dislike.’
‘Do you wish to provoke me then,’ Osmond laughed, ‘to
a passion for him?’
She said nothing for a moment, but then met the light
question with a disproportionate gravity. ‘No, Mr. Osmond;
I don’t think I should ever dare to provoke you. Lord War-
burton, at any rate,’ she more easily added, ‘is a very nice
man.’
‘Of great ability?’ her friend enquired.
‘Of excellent ability, and as good as he looks.’
‘As good as he’s good-looking do you mean? He’s very
good-looking. How detestably fortunate!—to be a great
English magnate, to be clever and handsome into the bar-
gain, and, by way of finishing off, to enjoy your high favour!
That’s a man I could envy.’
Isabel considered him with interest. ‘You seem to me to
be always envying some one. Yesterday it was the Pope; to-
day it’s poor Lord Warburton.’
‘My envy’s not dangerous; it wouldn’t hurt a mouse. I
don’t want to destroy the people—I only want to be them.
You see it would destroy only myself.’
‘You’d like to be the Pope?’ said Isabel.
‘I should love it—but I should have gone in for it earlier.
But why’—Osmond reverted—‘do you speak of your friend
as poor?’

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