Page 59 - the-portrait-of-a-lady

of the window. Then, ‘Are you not going down to see my fa-
ther?’ he asked.
‘At a quarter to eight,’ said Mrs. Touchett.
Her son looked at his watch. ‘You’ve another quarter of
an hour then. Tell me some more about Isabel.’ After which,
as Mrs. Touchett declined his invitation, declaring that he
must find out for himself, ‘Well,’ he pursued, ‘she’ll certain-
ly do you credit. But won’t she also give you trouble?’
‘I hope not; but if she does I shall not shrink from it. I
never do that.’
‘She strikes me as very natural,’ said Ralph.
‘Natural people are not the most trouble.’
‘No,’ said Ralph; ‘you yourself are a proof of that. You’re
extremely natural, and I’m sure you have never troubled any
one. It takes trouble to do that. But tell me this; it just occurs
to me. Is Isabel capable of making herself disagreeable?’
‘Ah,’ cried his mother, ‘you ask too many questions! Find
that out for yourself.’
His questions, however, were not exhausted. ‘All this
time,’ he said, ‘you’ve not told me what you intend to do
with her.’
‘Do with her? You talk as if she were a yard of calico. I
shall do absolutely nothing with her, and she herself will do
everything she chooses. She gave me notice of that.’
‘What you meant then, in your telegram, was that her
character’s independent.’
‘I never know what I mean in my telegrams—especial-
ly those I send from America. Clearness is too expensive.
Come down to your father.’

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