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‘Do you wish to see him?’ Osmond asked in a provok-
ingly pointless tone.
Madame Merle looked at him a moment; she knew each
of his tones to the eighth of a note. ‘Yes, I should like to say
to him that I’ve told you what he wants, and that it interests
you but feebly.’
‘Don’t tell him that. He’ll try to interest me more-which
is exactly what I don’t want. Tell him I hate his proposal.’
‘But you don’t hate it.’
‘It doesn’t signify; I don’t love it. I let him see that, my-
self, this evening; I was rude to him on purpose. That sort of
thing’s a great bore. There’s no hurry.’
‘I’ll tell him that you’ll take time and think it over.’
‘No, don’t do that. He’ll hang on.’
‘If I discourage him he’ll do the same.’
‘Yes, but in the one case he’ll try to talk and explain-
which would be exceedingly tiresome. In the other he’ll
probably hold his tongue and go in for some deeper game.
That will leave me quiet. I hate talking with a donkey.’
‘Is that what you call poor Mr. Rosier?’
‘Oh, he’s a nuisance-with his eternal majolica.’
Madame Merle dropped her eyes; she had a faint smile.
‘He’s a gentleman, he has a charming temper; and, after all,
an income of forty thousand francs!’
‘It’s misery-’genteel’ misery,’ Osmond broke in. ‘It’s not
what I’ve dreamed of for Pansy.’
‘Very good then. He has promised me not to speak to
her.’
‘Do you believe him?’ Osmond asked absent-mindedly.

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