Page 522 - the-portrait-of-a-lady

It made him feel hot, so that he had to pat his forehead with
his handkerchief; he had never been so uncomfortable. She
was such a perfect jeune fille, and one couldn’t make of a
jeune fille the enquiry requisite for throwing light on such
a point. A jeune fille was what Rosier had always dreamed
of-a jeune fille who should yet not be French, for he had felt
that this nationality would complicate the question. He was
sure Pansy had never looked at a newspaper and that, in the
way of novels, if she had read Sir Walter Scott it was the very
most. An American jeune fille-what could be better than
that? She would be frank and gay, and yet would not have
walked alone, nor have received letters from men, nor have
been taken to the theatre to see the comedy of manners.
Rosier could not deny that, as the matter stood, it would
be a breach of hospitality to appeal directly to this unso-
phisticated creature; but he was now in imminent danger
of asking himself if hospitality were the most sacred thing
in the world. Was not the sentiment that he entertained for
Miss Osmond of infinitely greater importance? Of greater
importance to him-yes; but not probably to the master of
the house. There was one comfort; even if this gentleman
had been placed on his guard by Madame Merle he would
not have extended the warning to Pansy; it would not have
been part of his policy to let her know that a prepossessing
young man was in love with her. But he was in love with her,
the prepossessing young man; and all these restrictions of
circumstance had ended by irritating him. What had Gil-
bert Osmond meant by giving him two fingers of his left
hand? If Osmond was rude, surely he himself might be bold.

522 The Portrait of a Lady