n America," pursued
Madame Merle, who, it must be observed parenthetically, did not deliver
herself all at once of these reflexions, which are presented in a
cluster for the convenience of the reader. She talked of Florence, where
Mr. Osmond lived and where Mrs. Touchett occupied a medieval palace; she
talked of Rome, where she herself had a little pied-a-terre with some
rather good old damask. She talked of places, of people and even, as the
phrase is, of "subjects"; and from time to time she talked of their kind
old host and of the prospect of his recovery. From the first she
had thought this prospect small, and Isabel had been struck with the
positive, discriminating, competent way in which she took the measure
of his remainder of life. One evening she announced definitely that he
wouldn't live.

"Sir Matthew Hope told me so as plainly as was proper," she said;
"standing there, near the fire, before dinner. He makes himself very
agreeable, the great doctor. I don't mean his saying that has anything
to do with it. But he says such things with great tact. I had told him
I felt ill at my ease, staying here at such a time; it seemed to me so
indiscreet--it wasn't as if I could nurse. 'You must remain, you must
remain,' he answered; 'your office will come later.' Wasn't that a very
delicate way of saying both that poor Mr. Touchett would go and that I
might be of some use as a consoler? In fact, however, I shall not be of
the slightest use. Your aunt will console herself; she, and she alone,
knows just how much consolation she'll require. It would be a very
delicate matter for another person to undertake to administer the dose.
With your cousin it will be different; he'll miss his father immensely.
But I should never presume to condole with Mr. Ralph; we're not on
those terms." Madame Merle had alluded more than once to some undefined
incongruity in her relations with Ralph Touchett; so Isabel took this
occasion of asking her if they were not good friends.

"Perfectly, but he doesn't like me."

"What have you done to him?"

"Nothing whatever. But one has no need of a reason for that."

"For not liking you? I think one has need of a very good reason."

"You're very kind. Be sure you have one ready for the day you begin."

"Begin to dislike you? I shall never begin."

"I hope not; because if you do you'll never end. That's the way with
your cousin; he doesn't get over it. It's an antipathy of nature--if
I can call