The Portrait of a Lady

he dropped a smile of chastened devotion. Pansy replied, as usual, with a little air of conscientious aspiration; he had to bend toward her a good deal in conversation, and her eyes, as usual, wandered up and down his robust person as if he had offered it to her for exhibition. She always seemed a little frightened; yet her fright was not of the painful character that suggests dislike; on the contrary, she looked as if she knew that he knew she liked him. Isabel left them together a little and wandered toward a friend whom she saw near and with whom she talked till the music of the following dance began, for which she knew Pansy to be also engaged. The girl joined her presently, with a little fluttered flush, and Isabel, who scrupulously took Osmond’s view of his daughter’s complete dependence, consigned her, as a precious and momentary loan, to her appointed partner. About all this matter she had her own imaginations, her own reserves; there were moments when Pansy’s extreme adhesiveness made each of them, to her sense, look foolish. But Osmond had given her a sort of tableau of her position as his daughter’s duenna, which consisted of gracious alternations of concession and contraction; and there were directions of his which she liked to think she obeyed to the letter. Perhaps, as regards some of them, it was because her doing so appeared to reduce them to the absurd.

After Pansy had been led away, she found Lord Warburton drawing near her again. She rested her eyes on him steadily; she wished she could sound his thoughts. But he had no appearance of confusion. “She has promised to dance with me later,” he said.

“I’m glad of that. I suppose you’ve engaged her for the cotillion.”

At this he looked a little awkward. “No, I didn’t ask her for that. It’s a quadrille.”

“Ah, you’re not clever!” said Isabel almost angrily. “I told her to keep the cotillion in case you should ask for it.”

“Poor little maid, fancy that!” And Lord Warburton laughed frankly. “Of course I will if you like.”

“If I like? Oh, if you dance with her only because I like it⁠—!”

“I’m afraid I bore her. She seems to have a lot of young fellows on her book.”

Isabel dropped her eyes, reflecting rapidly; Lord Warburton stood there looking at her and she felt his eyes on her face. She felt much inclined to ask him to remove them. She didn’t do so, however; she only said to him, after a minute, with her own raised: “Please let me understand.”

“Understand what?”

“You told me ten days ago that you’d like to marry my stepdaughter. You’ve not forgotten it!”

“Forgotten it? I wrote to Mr. Osmond about it this morning.”

“Ah,” said Isabel, “he didn’t mention to me that he had heard from you.”

Lord Warburton stammered a little. “I⁠—I didn’t send my letter.”

“Perhaps you forgot that.”

“No, I wasn’t satisfied with it. It’s an awkward sort of letter to write, you know. But I shall send it tonight.”

“At three o’clock in the morning?”

“I mean later, in the course of the day.”

“Very good. You still wish then to marry her?”

“Very much indeed.”

“Aren’t you afraid that you’ll bore her?” And as her companion stared at this enquiry Isabel added: “If she can’t dance with you for half an hour how will she be able to dance with you for life?”

“Ah,” said Lord Warburton readily, “I’ll let her dance with other people! About the cotillion, the fact is I thought that you⁠—that you⁠—”

“That I would do it with you? I told you I’d do nothing.”

“Exactly; so that while it’s going on I might find some quiet corner where we may sit down and talk.”

“Oh,” said Isabel gravely, “you’re much too considerate of me.”

When the cotillion came Pansy was found to have engaged herself, thinking, in perfect humility, that Lord Warburton had no intentions. Isabel recommended him to seek another partner, but he assured her that he would dance with no one but herself. As, however, she had, in spite of the remonstrances of her hostess, declined other invitations on the ground that she was not dancing at all, it was not possible for her to make an exception in Lord Warburton’s favour.

“After all I don’t care to dance,” he said; “it’s a barbarous amusement: I’d much rather talk.” And he intimated that he had discovered exactly the corner he had been looking for⁠—a quiet nook in one of the smaller rooms, where the music would come to them faintly and not interfere with conversation. Isabel had decided to let him carry out his idea; she wished to be satisfied. She wandered away from the ballroom with him, though she knew her husband desired she should not lose sight of his daughter. It was with his daughter’s pretendant, however; that would make it right for Osmond. On her way out of the ballroom she came upon Edward Rosier, who was standing in a doorway, with folded arms, looking at the dance in the attitude of a young man without illusions. She stopped a moment and asked him if he were not dancing.

“Certainly not, if I can’t dance with her!” he answered.

“You had better go away then,” said Isabel with the manner of good counsel.

“I shall not go till she does!” And he let Lord Warburton pass without giving him a look.

This nobleman, however, had noticed the melancholy youth, and he asked Isabel who her dismal friend was, remarking that he had seen him somewhere before.

“It’s the young man I’ve told you about, who’s in love with Pansy.”

“Ah yes, I remember. He looks rather bad.”

“He has reason. My husband won’t listen to him.”

“What’s the matter with him?” Lord Warburton enquired. “He seems very harmless.”

“He hasn’t money enough, and he isn’t very clever.”

Lord Warburton listened with interest; he seemed struck with this account of Edward Rosier. “Dear me; he looked a well-set-up young fellow.”

“So he is, but my husband’s very particular.”

“Oh, I see.” And Lord Warburton paused a