say, however, that she has only to sit perfectly still. Perhaps she won't sit perfectly still. If she loses Mr. Rosier she may jump up!'
Osmond appeared to give no heed to this; he sat gazing at the fire. 'Pansy would like to be a great lady,' he remarked in a moment with a certain tenderness of tone. 'She wishes above all to please,' he added.
'To please Mr. Rosier, perhaps.'
'No, to please me.'
'Me too a little, I think,' said Isabel.
'Yes, she has a great opinion of you. But she'll do what I like.'
'If you're sure of that, it's very well,' she went on.
'Meantime,' said Osmond, 'I should like our distinguished visitor to speak.'
'He has spoken—to me. He has told me it would be a great pleasure to him to believe she could care for him.'
Osmond turned his head quickly, but at first he said nothing. Then, 'Why didn't you tell me that?' he asked sharply.
'There was no opportunity. You know how we live. I've taken the first chance that has offered.'
'Did you speak to him of Rosier?'
'Oh yes, a little.'
'That was hardly necessary.'
'I thought it best he should know, so that, so that—' And Isabel paused.
'So that what?'
'So that he might act accordingly.'
'So that he might back out, do you mean?'
'No, so that he might advance while there's yet time.'
'That's not the effect it seems to have had.'
'You should have patience,' said Isabel. 'You know Englishmen are shy.'
'This one's not. He was not when he made love to YOU.'
She had been afraid Osmond would speak of that; it was disagreeable to her. 'I beg your pardon; he was extremely so,' she returned.
He answered nothing for some time; he took up a book and fingered the pages while she sat silent and occupied herself with Pansy's tapestry. 'You must have a great deal of influence with him,' Osmond went on at last. 'The moment you really wish it you can bring him to the point.'
This was more offensive still; but she felt the great naturalness of his saying it, and it was after all extremely like what she had said to herself. 'Why should I have influence?' she asked. 'What have I ever done to put him under an obligation to me?'
'You refused to marry him,' said Osmond with his eyes on his book.
'I must not presume too much on that,' she replied.
He threw down the book presently and got up, standing before the fire with his hands behind him. 'Well, I hold that it lies in your hands. I shall leave it there. With a little good-will you may manage it. Think that over and remember how much I count on you.' He waited a little, to give her time to answer; but she answered nothing, and he presently strolled out of the room.
CHAPTER XLII
She had answered nothing because his words had put the situation before her and she was absorbed in looking at it. There was something in them that suddenly made vibrations deep, so that she had been afraid to trust herself to speak. After he had gone she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes; and for a long time, far into the night and still further, she sat in the still drawing-room, given up to her meditation. A servant came in to attend to the fire, and she bade him bring fresh candles and then go to bed. Osmond had told her to think of what he had said; and she did so indeed, and of many other things. The suggestion from another that she had a definite influence on Lord Warburton—this had given her the start that accompanies unexpected recognition. Was it true that there was something still between them that might be a handle to make him declare himself to Pansy—a susceptibility, on his part, to approval, a desire to do what would please her? Isabel had hitherto not asked herself the question, because she had not been forced; but now that it was directly presented to her she saw the answer, and the answer frightened her. Yes, there was something—something on Lord Warburton's part. When he had first come to Rome she believed the link that united them to be completely snapped; but little by little she had been reminded that it had yet a palpable existence. It was as thin as a hair, but there were moments when she seemed to hear it vibrate. For herself nothing was changed; what she once thought of him she always thought; it was needless this feeling should change; it seemed to her in fact a better feeling than ever. But he? had he still the idea that she might be more to him than other women? Had he the wish to profit by the memory of the few moments of intimacy through which they had once passed? Isabel knew she had read some of the signs of such a disposition. But what were his hopes, his pretensions, and in what strange way were they mingled with his evidently very sincere appreciation of poor Pansy? Was he in love with Gilbert Osmond's wife, and if so what comfort did he expect to derive from it? If he was in love with Pansy he was not in love with her stepmother, and if he was in love with her stepmother he was not in love with Pansy. Was she to cultivate the advantage she possessed in order to make him commit himself to Pansy, knowing he would do so for her sake and not for the small creature's own—was this the service her husband had asked of her? This at any rate was the duty with which she found herself confronted—from the moment she admitted to herself that her old friend had still an uneradicated predilection for her society. It was not an agreeable task; it was in fact a repulsive one. She asked herself with dismay whether Lord Warburton were pretending to be in love with Pansy in order to cultivate another satisfaction and what might be called other chances. Of this refinement of duplicity she presently acquitted him; she preferred to believe him in perfect good faith. But if his admiration for Pansy were a delusion this was scarcely better than its being an affectation. Isabel wandered among these ugly possibilities until she had completely lost her way; some of them, as she suddenly encountered them, seemed ugly enough. Then she broke out of the labyrinth, rubbing her eyes, and declared that her imagination surely did her little
