Kabanata Kabanata 44 · Chapter XLIV

The Countess Gemini was often extremely bored--bored, in her own phrase,

to extinction. She had not been extinguished, however, and she

struggled bravely enough with her destiny, which had been to marry an

unaccommodating Florentine who insisted upon living in his native town,

where he enjoyed such consideration as might attach to a gentleman whose

talent for losing at cards had not the merit of being incidental to an

obliging disposition. The Count Gemini was not liked even by those who

won from him; and he bore a name which, having a measurable value in

Florence, was, like the local coin of the old Italian states, without

currency in other parts of the peninsula. In Rome he was simply a very

dull Florentine, and it is not remarkable that he should not have cared

to pay frequent visits to a place where, to carry it off, his dulness

needed more explanation than was convenient. The Countess lived with her

eyes upon Rome, and it was the constant grievance of her life that she

had not an habitation there. She was ashamed to say how seldom she had

been allowed to visit that city; it scarcely made the matter better that

there were other members of the Florentine nobility who never had been

there at all. She went whenever she could; that was all she could say.

Or rather not all, but all she said she could say. In fact she had much

more to say about it, and had often set forth the reasons why she hated

Florence and wished to end her days in the shadow of Saint Peter’s. They

are reasons, however, that do not closely concern us, and were usually

summed up in the declaration that Rome, in short, was the Eternal City

and that Florence was simply a pretty little place like any other. The

Countess apparently needed to connect the idea of eternity with

her amusements. She was convinced that society was infinitely more

interesting in Rome, where you met celebrities all winter at evening

parties. At Florence there were no celebrities; none at least that one

had heard of. Since her brother’s marriage her impatience had greatly

increased; she was so sure his wife had a more brilliant life than

herself. She was not so intellectual as Isabel, but she was intellectual

enough to do justice to Rome--not to the ruins and the catacombs, not

even perhaps to the monuments and museums, the church ceremonies and the

scenery; but certainly to all the rest. She heard a great deal about

her sister-in-law and knew perfectly that Isabel was having a beautiful

time. She had indeed seen it for herself on the only occasion on which

she had enjoyed the hospitality of Palazzo Roccanera. She had spent a

week there during the first winter of her brother’s marriage, but she

had not been encouraged to renew this satisfaction. Osmond didn’t want

her--that she was perfectly aware of; but she would have gone all the

same, for after all she didn’t care two straws about Osmond. It was

her husband who wouldn’t let her, and the money question was always

a trouble. Isabel had been very nice; the Countess, who had liked her

sister-in-law from the first, had not been blinded by envy to Isabel’s

personal merits. She had always observed that she got on better with

clever women than with silly ones like herself; the silly ones could

never understand her wisdom, whereas the clever ones--the really

clever ones--always understood her silliness. It appeared to her that,

different as they were in appearance and general style, Isabel and she

had somewhere a patch of common ground that they would set their feet

upon at last. It was not very large, but it was firm, and they should

both know it when once they had really touched it. And then she lived,

with Mrs. Osmond, under the influence of a pleasant surprise; she was

constantly expecting that Isabel would “look down” on her, and she as

constantly saw this operation postponed. She asked herself when it would

begin, like fire-works, or Lent, or the opera season; not that she

cared much, but she wondered what kept it in abeyance. Her sister-in-law

regarded her with none but level glances and expressed for the poor

Countess as little contempt as admiration. In reality Isabel would as

soon have thought of despising her as of passing a moral judgement on a

grasshopper. She was not indifferent to her husband’s sister, however;

she was rather a little afraid of her. She wondered at her; she thought

her very extraordinary. The Countess seemed to her to have no soul; she

was like a bright rare shell, with a polished surface and a remarkably

pink lip, in which something would rattle when you shook it. This rattle

was apparently the Countess’s spiritual principle, a little loose nut

that tumbled about inside of her. She was too odd for disdain, too

anomalous for comparisons. Isabel would have invited her again (there

was no question of inviting the Count); but Osmond, after his marriage,

had not scrupled to say frankly that Amy was a fool of the worst

species--a fool whose folly had the irrepressibility of genius. He said

at another time that she had no heart; and he added in a moment that she

had given it all away--in small pieces, like a frosted wedding-cake.

The fact of not having been asked was of course another obstacle to

the Countess’s going again to Rome; but at the period with which this

history has now to deal she was in receipt of an invitation to spend

several weeks at Palazzo Roccanera. The proposal had come from Osmond

himself, who wrote to his sister that she must be prepared to be very

quiet. Whether or no she found in this phrase all the meaning he had

put into it I am unable to say; but she accepted the invitation on any

terms. She was curious, moreover; for one of the impressions of her

former visit had been that her brother had found his match. Before the

marriage she had been sorry for Isabel, so sorry as to have had serious

thoughts--if any of the Countess’s thoughts were serious--of putting

her on her guard. But she had let that pass, and after a little she was

reassured. Osmond was as lofty as ever, but his wife would not be an

easy victim. The Countess was not very exact at measurements, but it

seemed to her that if Isabel should draw herself up she would be the

taller spirit of the two. What she wanted to learn now was whether

Isabel had drawn herself up; it would give her immense pleasure to see

Osmond overtopped.

Several days before she was to start for Rome a servant brought her the

card of a visitor--a card with the simple superscription “Henrietta C.

Stackpole.” The Countess pressed her finger-tips to her forehead; she

didn’t remember to have known any such Henrietta as that. The servant

then remarked that the lady had requested him to say that if the

Countess should not recognise her name she would know her well enough on

seeing her. By the time she appeared before her visitor she had in fact

reminded herself that there was once a literary lady at Mrs. Touchett’s;

the only woman of letters she had ever encountered--that is the only

modern one, since she was the daughter of a defunct poetess. She

recognised Miss Stackpole immediately, the more so that Miss Stackpole

seemed perfectly unchanged; and the Countess, who was thoroughly

good-natured, thought it rather fine to be called on by a person of that

sort of distinction. She wondered if Miss Stackpole had come on account

of her mother--whether she had heard of the American Corinne. Her mother

was not at all like Isabel’s friend; the Countess could see at a

glance that this lady was much more contemporary; and she received

an impression of the improvements that were taking place--chiefly in

distant countries--in the character (the professional character) of

literary ladies. Her mother had been used to wear a Roman scarf thrown

over a pair of shoulders timorously bared of their tight black velvet

(oh the old clothes!) and a gold laurel-wreath set upon a multitude of

glossy ringlets. She had spoken softly and vaguely, with the accent of

her “Creole” ancestors, as she always confessed; she sighed a great deal

and was not at all enterprising. But Henrietta, the Countess could see,

was always closely buttoned and compactly braided; there was something

brisk and business-like in her appearance; her manner was almost

conscientiously familiar. It was as impossible to imagine her ever

vaguely sighing as to imagine a letter posted without its address. The

Countess could not but feel that the correspondent of the _Interviewer_

was much more in the movement than the American Corinne. She explained

that she had called on the Countess because she was the only person she

knew in Florence, and that when she visited a foreign city she liked to

see something more than superficial travellers. She knew Mrs. Touchett,

but Mrs. Touchett was in America, and even if she had been in Florence

Henrietta would not have put herself out for her, since Mrs. Touchett

was not one of her admirations.

“Do you mean by that that I am?” the Countess graciously asked.

“Well, I like you better than I do her,” said Miss Stackpole. “I seem to

remember that when I saw you before you were very interesting. I don’t

know whether it was an accident or whether it’s your usual style. At

any rate I was a good deal struck with what you said. I made use of it

afterwards in print.”

“Dear me!” cried the Countess, staring and half-alarmed; “I had no idea

I ever said anything remarkable! I wish I had known it at the time.”

“It was about the position of woman in this city,” Miss Stackpole

remarked. “You threw a good deal of light upon it.”

“The position of woman’s very uncomfortable. Is that what you mean? And

you wrote it down and published it?” the Countess went on. “Ah, do let

me see it!”

“I’ll write to them to send you the paper if you like,” Henrietta said.

“I didn’t mention your name; I only said a lady of high rank. And then I

quoted your views.”

The Countess threw herself hastily backward, tossing up her clasped

hands. “Do you know I’m rather sorry you didn’t mention my name? I

should have rather liked to see my name in the papers. I forget what my

views were; I have so many! But I’m not ashamed of them. I’m not at all

like my brother--I suppose you know my brother? He thinks it a kind of

scandal to be put in the papers; if you were to quote him he’d never

forgive you.”

“He needn’t be afraid; I shall never refer to him,” said Miss Stackpole

with bland dryness. “That’s another reason,” she added, “why I wanted to

come to see you. You know Mr. Osmond married my dearest friend.”

“Ah, yes; you were a friend of Isabel’s. I was trying to think what I

knew about you.”

“I’m quite willing to be known by that,” Henrietta declared. “But that

isn’t what your brother likes to know me by. He has tried to break up my

relations with Isabel.”

“Don’t permit it,” said the Countess.

“That’s what I want to talk about. I’m going to Rome.”

“So am I!” the Countess cried. “We’ll go together.”

“With great pleasure. And when I write about my journey I’ll mention you

by name as my companion.”

The Countess sprang from her chair and came and sat on the sofa beside

her visitor. “Ah, you must send me the paper! My husband won’t like it,

but he need never see it. Besides, he doesn’t know how to read.”

Henrietta’s large eyes became immense. “Doesn’t know how to read? May I

put that into my letter?”

“Into your letter?”

“In the _Interviewer_. That’s my paper.”

“Oh yes, if you like; with his name. Are you going to stay with Isabel?”

Henrietta held up her head, gazing a little in silence at her hostess.

“She has not asked me. I wrote to her I was coming, and she answered

that she would engage a room for me at a pension. She gave no reason.”

The Countess listened with extreme interest. “The reason’s Osmond,” she

pregnantly remarked.

“Isabel ought to make a stand,” said Miss Stackpole. “I’m afraid she has

changed a great deal. I told her she would.”

“I’m sorry to hear it; I hoped she would have her own way. Why doesn’t

my brother like you?” the Countess ingenuously added.

“I don’t know and I don’t care. He’s perfectly welcome not to like me;

I don’t want every one to like me; I should think less of myself if some

people did. A journalist can’t hope to do much good unless he gets a

good deal hated; that’s the way he knows how his work goes on. And it’s

just the same for a lady. But I didn’t expect it of Isabel.”

“Do you mean that she hates you?” the Countess enquired.

“I don’t know; I want to see. That’s what I’m going to Rome for.”

“Dear me, what a tiresome errand!” the Countess exclaimed.

“She doesn’t write to me in the same way; it’s easy to see there’s a

difference. If you know anything,” Miss Stackpole went on, “I should

like to hear it beforehand, so as to decide on the line I shall take.”

The Countess thrust out her under lip and gave a gradual shrug. “I know

very little; I see and hear very little of Osmond. He doesn’t like me

any better than he appears to like you.”

“Yet you’re not a lady correspondent,” said Henrietta pensively.

“Oh, he has plenty of reasons. Nevertheless they’ve invited me--I’m

to stay in the house!” And the Countess smiled almost fiercely; her

exultation, for the moment, took little account of Miss Stackpole’s

disappointment.

This lady, however, regarded it very placidly. “I shouldn’t have gone if

she _had_ asked me. That is I think I shouldn’t; and I’m glad I hadn’t

to make up my mind. It would have been a very difficult question. I

shouldn’t have liked to turn away from her, and yet I shouldn’t have

been happy under her roof. A pension will suit me very well. But that’s

not all.”

“Rome’s very good just now,” said the Countess; “there are all sorts of

brilliant people. Did you ever hear of Lord Warburton?”

“Hear of him? I know him very well. Do you consider him very brilliant?”

Henrietta enquired.

“I don’t know him, but I’m told he’s extremely grand seigneur. He’s

making love to Isabel.”

“Making love to her?”

“So I’m told; I don’t know the details,” said the Countess lightly. “But

Isabel’s pretty safe.”

Henrietta gazed earnestly at her companion; for a moment she said

nothing. “When do you go to Rome?” she enquired abruptly.

“Not for a week, I’m afraid.”

“I shall go to-morrow,” Henrietta said. “I think I had better not wait.”

“Dear me, I’m sorry; I’m having some dresses made. I’m told Isabel

receives immensely. But I shall see you there; I shall call on you

at your pension.” Henrietta sat still--she was lost in thought; and

suddenly the Countess cried: “Ah, but if you don’t go with me you can’t

describe our journey!”

Miss Stackpole seemed unmoved by this consideration; she was thinking

of something else and presently expressed it. “I’m not sure that I

understand you about Lord Warburton.”

“Understand me? I mean he’s very nice, that’s all.”

“Do you consider it nice to make love to married women?” Henrietta

enquired with unprecedented distinctness.

The Countess stared, and then with a little violent laugh: “It’s certain

all the nice men do it. Get married and you’ll see!” she added.

“That idea would be enough to prevent me,” said Miss Stackpole. “I

should want my own husband; I shouldn’t want any one else’s. Do you mean

that Isabel’s guilty--guilty--?” And she paused a little, choosing her

expression.

“Do I mean she’s guilty? Oh dear no, not yet, I hope. I only mean that

Osmond’s very tiresome and that Lord Warburton, as I hear, is a great

deal at the house. I’m afraid you’re scandalised.”

“No, I’m just anxious,” Henrietta said.

“Ah, you’re not very complimentary to Isabel! You should have more

confidence. I’ll tell you,” the Countess added quickly: “if it will be a

comfort to you I engage to draw him off.”

Miss Stackpole answered at first only with the deeper solemnity of her

gaze. “You don’t understand me,” she said after a while. “I haven’t the

idea you seem to suppose. I’m not afraid for Isabel--in that way. I’m

only afraid she’s unhappy--that’s what I want to get at.”

The Countess gave a dozen turns of the head; she looked impatient and

sarcastic. “That may very well be; for my part I should like to know

whether Osmond is.” Miss Stackpole had begun a little to bore her.

“If she’s really changed that must be at the bottom of it,” Henrietta

went on.

“You’ll see; she’ll tell you,” said the Countess.

“Ah, she may _not_ tell me--that’s what I’m afraid of!”

“Well, if Osmond isn’t amusing himself--in his own old way--I flatter

myself I shall discover it,” the Countess rejoined.

“I don’t care for that,” said Henrietta.

“I do immensely! If Isabel’s unhappy I’m very sorry for her, but I can’t

help it. I might tell her something that would make her worse, but I

can’t tell her anything that would console her. What did she go and

marry him for? If she had listened to me she’d have got rid of him. I’ll

forgive her, however, if I find she has made things hot for him! If she

has simply allowed him to trample upon her I don’t know that I shall

even pity her. But I don’t think that’s very likely. I count upon

finding that if she’s miserable she has at least made _him_ so.”

Henrietta got up; these seemed to her, naturally, very dreadful

expectations. She honestly believed she had no desire to see Mr. Osmond

unhappy; and indeed he could not be for her the subject of a flight of

fancy. She was on the whole rather disappointed in the Countess, whose

mind moved in a narrower circle than she had imagined, though with a

capacity for coarseness even there. “It will be better if they love each

other,” she said for edification.

“They can’t. He can’t love any one.”

“I presumed that was the case. But it only aggravates my fear for

Isabel. I shall positively start to-morrow.”

“Isabel certainly has devotees,” said the Countess, smiling very

vividly. “I declare I don’t pity her.”

“It may be I can’t assist her,” Miss Stackpole pursued, as if it were

well not to have illusions.

“You can have wanted to, at any rate; that’s something. I believe that’s

what you came from America for,” the Countess suddenly added.

“Yes, I wanted to look after her,” Henrietta said serenely.

Her hostess stood there smiling at her with small bright eyes and an

eager-looking nose; with cheeks into each of which a flush had come.

“Ah, that’s very pretty _c’est bien gentil_! Isn’t it what they call

friendship?”

“I don’t know what they call it. I thought I had better come.”

“She’s very happy--she’s very fortunate,” the Countess went on. “She

has others besides.” And then she broke out passionately. “She’s more

fortunate than I! I’m as unhappy as she--I’ve a very bad husband; he’s a

great deal worse than Osmond. And I’ve no friends. I thought I had, but

they’re gone. No one, man or woman, would do for me what you’ve done for

her.”

Henrietta was touched; there was nature in this bitter effusion. She

gazed at her companion a moment, and then: “Look here, Countess, I’ll do

anything for you that you like. I’ll wait over and travel with you.”

“Never mind,” the Countess answered with a quick change of tone: “only

describe me in the newspaper!”

Henrietta, before leaving her, however, was obliged to make her

understand that she could give no fictitious representation of her

journey to Rome. Miss Stackpole was a strictly veracious reporter. On

quitting her she took the way to the Lung’ Arno, the sunny quay beside

the yellow river where the bright-faced inns familiar to tourists stand

all in a row. She had learned her way before this through the streets of

Florence (she was very quick in such matters), and was therefore able

to turn with great decision of step out of the little square which forms

the approach to the bridge of the Holy Trinity. She proceeded to the

left, toward the Ponte Vecchio, and stopped in front of one of the

hotels which overlook that delightful structure. Here she drew forth

a small pocket-book, took from it a card and a pencil and, after

meditating a moment, wrote a few words. It is our privilege to look over

her shoulder, and if we exercise it we may read the brief query: “Could

I see you this evening for a few moments on a very important matter?”

Henrietta added that she should start on the morrow for Rome. Armed with

this little document she approached the porter, who now had taken up

his station in the doorway, and asked if Mr. Goodwood were at home.

The porter replied, as porters always reply, that he had gone out about

twenty minutes before; whereupon Henrietta presented her card and begged

it might be handed him on his return. She left the inn and pursued her

course along the quay to the severe portico of the Uffizi, through which

she presently reached the entrance of the famous gallery of paintings.

Making her way in, she ascended the high staircase which leads to the

upper chambers. The long corridor, glazed on one side and decorated with

antique busts, which gives admission to these apartments, presented an

empty vista in which the bright winter light twinkled upon the marble

floor. The gallery is very cold and during the midwinter weeks but

scantily visited. Miss Stackpole may appear more ardent in her quest of

artistic beauty than she has hitherto struck us as being, but she had

after all her preferences and admirations. One of the latter was the

little Correggio of the Tribune--the Virgin kneeling down before the

sacred infant, who lies in a litter of straw, and clapping her hands

to him while he delightedly laughs and crows. Henrietta had a special

devotion to this intimate scene--she thought it the most beautiful

picture in the world. On her way, at present, from New York to Rome, she

was spending but three days in Florence, and yet reminded herself that

they must not elapse without her paying another visit to her favourite

work of art. She had a great sense of beauty in all ways, and it

involved a good many intellectual obligations. She was about to turn

into the Tribune when a gentleman came out of it; whereupon she gave a

little exclamation and stood before Caspar Goodwood.

“I’ve just been at your hotel,” she said. “I left a card for you.”

“I’m very much honoured,” Caspar Goodwood answered as if he really meant

it.

“It was not to honour you I did it; I’ve called on you before and I know

you don’t like it. It was to talk to you a little about something.”

He looked for a moment at the buckle in her hat. “I shall be very glad

to hear what you wish to say.”

“You don’t like to talk with me,” said Henrietta. “But I don’t care for

that; I don’t talk for your amusement. I wrote a word to ask you to come

and see me; but since I’ve met you here this will do as well.”

“I was just going away,” Goodwood stated; “but of course I’ll stop.” He

was civil, but not enthusiastic.

Henrietta, however, never looked for great professions, and she was

so much in earnest that she was thankful he would listen to her on

any terms. She asked him first, none the less, if he had seen all the

pictures.

“All I want to. I’ve been here an hour.”

“I wonder if you’ve seen my Correggio,” said Henrietta. “I came up on

purpose to have a look at it.” She went into the Tribune and he slowly

accompanied her.

“I suppose I’ve seen it, but I didn’t know it was yours. I don’t

remember pictures--especially that sort.” She had pointed out her

favourite work, and he asked her if it was about Correggio she wished to

talk with him.

“No,” said Henrietta, “it’s about something less harmonious!” They

had the small, brilliant room, a splendid cabinet of treasures, to

themselves; there was only a custode hovering about the Medicean Venus.

“I want you to do me a favour,” Miss Stackpole went on.

Caspar Goodwood frowned a little, but he expressed no embarrassment at

the sense of not looking eager. His face was that of a much older man

than our earlier friend. “I’m sure it’s something I shan’t like,” he

said rather loudly.

“No, I don’t think you’ll like it. If you did it would be no favour.”

“Well, let’s hear it,” he went on in the tone of a man quite conscious

of his patience.

“You may say there’s no particular reason why you should do me a favour.

Indeed I only know of one: the fact that if you’d let me I’d gladly do

you one.” Her soft, exact tone, in which there was no attempt at effect,

had an extreme sincerity; and her companion, though he presented rather

a hard surface, couldn’t help being touched by it. When he was touched

he rarely showed it, however, by the usual signs; he neither blushed,

nor looked away, nor looked conscious. He only fixed his attention more

directly; he seemed to consider with added firmness. Henrietta continued

therefore disinterestedly, without the sense of an advantage. “I may say

now, indeed--it seems a good time--that if I’ve ever annoyed you (and

I think sometimes I have) it’s because I knew I was willing to suffer

annoyance for you. I’ve troubled you--doubtless. But I’d _take_ trouble

for you.”

Goodwood hesitated. “You’re taking trouble now.”

“Yes, I am--some. I want you to consider whether it’s better on the

whole that you should go to Rome.”

“I thought you were going to say that!” he answered rather artlessly.

“You _have_ considered it then?”

“Of course I have, very carefully. I’ve looked all round it. Otherwise

I shouldn’t have come so far as this. That’s what I stayed in Paris two

months for. I was thinking it over.”

“I’m afraid you decided as you liked. You decided it was best because

you were so much attracted.”

“Best for whom, do you mean?” Goodwood demanded.

“Well, for yourself first. For Mrs. Osmond next.”

“Oh, it won’t do _her_ any good! I don’t flatter myself that.”

“Won’t it do her some harm?--that’s the question.”

“I don’t see what it will matter to her. I’m nothing to Mrs. Osmond. But

if you want to know, I do want to see her myself.”

“Yes, and that’s why you go.”

“Of course it is. Could there be a better reason?”

“How will it help you?--that’s what I want to know,” said Miss

Stackpole.

“That’s just what I can’t tell you. It’s just what I was thinking about

in Paris.”

“It will make you more discontented.”

“Why do you say ‘more’ so?” Goodwood asked rather sternly. “How do you

know I’m discontented?”

“Well,” said Henrietta, hesitating a little, “you seem never to have

cared for another.”

“How do you know what I care for?” he cried with a big blush. “Just now

I care to go to Rome.”

Henrietta looked at him in silence, with a sad yet luminous expression.

“Well,” she observed at last, “I only wanted to tell you what I think;

I had it on my mind. Of course you think it’s none of my business. But

nothing is any one’s business, on that principle.”

“It’s very kind of you; I’m greatly obliged to you for your interest,”

said Caspar Goodwood. “I shall go to Rome and I shan’t hurt Mrs.

Osmond.”

“You won’t hurt her, perhaps. But will you help her?--that’s the real

issue.”

“Is she in need of help?” he asked slowly, with a penetrating look.

“Most women always are,” said Henrietta, with conscientious evasiveness

and generalising less hopefully than usual. “If you go to Rome,” she

added, “I hope you’ll be a true friend--not a selfish one!” And she

turned off and began to look at the pictures.

Caspar Goodwood let her go and stood watching her while she wandered

round the room; but after a moment he rejoined her. “You’ve heard

something about her here,” he then resumed. “I should like to know what

you’ve heard.”

Henrietta had never prevaricated in her life, and, though on this

occasion there might have been a fitness in doing so, she decided, after

thinking some minutes, to make no superficial exception. “Yes, I’ve

heard,” she answered; “but as I don’t want you to go to Rome I won’t

tell you.”

“Just as you please. I shall see for myself,” he said. Then

inconsistently, for him, “You’ve heard she’s unhappy!” he added.

“Oh, you won’t see that!” Henrietta exclaimed.

“I hope not. When do you start?”

“To-morrow, by the evening train. And you?”

Goodwood hung back; he had no desire to make his journey to Rome in Miss

Stackpole’s company. His indifference to this advantage was not of the

same character as Gilbert Osmond’s, but it had at this moment an equal

distinctness. It was rather a tribute to Miss Stackpole’s virtues than a

reference to her faults. He thought her very remarkable, very brilliant,

and he had, in theory, no objection to the class to which she belonged.

Lady correspondents appeared to him a part of the natural scheme of

things in a progressive country, and though he never read their letters

he supposed that they ministered somehow to social prosperity. But

it was this very eminence of their position that made him wish Miss

Stackpole didn’t take so much for granted. She took for granted that he

was always ready for some allusion to Mrs. Osmond; she had done so when

they met in Paris, six weeks after his arrival in Europe, and she had

repeated the assumption with every successive opportunity. He had no

wish whatever to allude to Mrs. Osmond; he was _not_ always thinking of

her; he was perfectly sure of that. He was the most reserved, the least

colloquial of men, and this enquiring authoress was constantly flashing

her lantern into the quiet darkness of his soul. He wished she didn’t

care so much; he even wished, though it might seem rather brutal of him,

that she would leave him alone. In spite of this, however, he just now

made other reflections--which show how widely different, in effect, his

ill-humour was from Gilbert Osmond’s. He desired to go immediately to

Rome; he would have liked to go alone, in the night-train. He hated the

European railway-carriages, in which one sat for hours in a vise, knee

to knee and nose to nose with a foreigner to whom one presently found

one’s self objecting with all the added vehemence of one’s wish to have

the window open; and if they were worse at night even than by day, at

least at night one could sleep and dream of an American saloon-car. But

he couldn’t take a night-train when Miss Stackpole was starting in the

morning; it struck him that this would be an insult to an unprotected

woman. Nor could he wait until after she had gone unless he should wait

longer than he had patience for. It wouldn’t do to start the next day.

She worried him; she oppressed him; the idea of spending the day in

a European railway-carriage with her offered a complication of

irritations. Still, she was a lady travelling alone; it was his duty to

put himself out for her. There could be no two questions about that;

it was a perfectly clear necessity. He looked extremely grave for some

moments and then said, wholly without the flourish of gallantry but in a

tone of extreme distinctness, “Of course if you’re going to-morrow I’ll

go too, as I may be of assistance to you.”

“Well, Mr. Goodwood, I should hope so!” Henrietta returned

imperturbably.