Page 506 - the-portrait-of-a-lady

had yearningly murmured. The room was small and dense-
ly filled with furniture; it gave an impression of faded silk
and little statuettes which might totter if one moved. Rosier
got up and wandered about with his careful tread, bending
over the tables charged with knick-knacks and the cushions
embossed with princely arms. When Madame Merle came
in she found him standing before the fireplace with his nose
very close to the great lace flounce attached to the damask
cover of the mantel. He had lifted it delicately, as if he were
smelling it.
‘It’s old Venetian,’ she said; ‘it’s rather good.’
‘It’s too good for this; you ought to wear it.’
‘They tell me you have some better in Paris, in the same
situation.’
‘Ah, but I can’t wear mine,’ smiled the visitor.
‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t! I’ve better lace than that
to wear.’
His eyes wandered, lingeringly, round the room again.
‘You’ve some very good things.’
‘Yes, but I hate them.’
‘Do you want to get rid of them?’ the young man quickly
asked.
‘No, it’s good to have something to hate: one works it
off!’
‘I love my things,’ said Mr. Rosier as he sat there flushed
with all his recognitions. ‘But it’s not about them, nor about
yours, that I came to talk to you.’
He paused a moment and then, with greater softness: ‘I
care more for Miss Osmond than for all the bibelots in Eu-

506 The Portrait of a Lady