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 anyone’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?”
“Tomorrow, 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
