hat was my
intention. But I've come to Florence to meet some friends who have
lately arrived and as to whose movements I was at that time uncertain."

"That reason's characteristic. You're always doing something for your
friends."

Madame Merle smiled straight at her host. "It's less characteristic than
your comment upon it which is perfectly insincere. I don't, however,
make a crime of that," she added, "because if you don't believe what
you say there's no reason why you should. I don't ruin myself for my
friends; I don't deserve your praise. I care greatly for myself."

"Exactly; but yourself includes so many other selves--so much of every
one else and of everything. I never knew a person whose life touched so
many other lives."

"What do you call one's life?" asked Madame Merle. "One's appearance,
one's movements, one's engagements, one's society?"

"I call YOUR life your ambitions," said Osmond.

Madame Merle looked a moment at Pansy. "I wonder if she understands
that," she murmured.

"You see she can't stay with us!" And Pansy's father gave rather a
joyless smile. "Go into the garden, mignonne, and pluck a flower or two
for Madame Merle," he went on in French.

"That's just what I wanted to do," Pansy exclaimed, rising with
promptness and noiselessly departing. Her father followed her to the
open door, stood a moment watching her, and then came back, but remained
standing, or rather strolling to and fro, as if to cultivate a sense of
freedom which in another attitude might be wanting.

"My ambitions are principally for you," said Madame Merle, looking up at
him with a certain courage.

"That comes back to what I say. I'm part of your life--I and a thousand
others. You're not selfish--I can't admit that. If you were selfish,
what should I be? What epithet would properly describe me?"

"You're indolent. For me that's your worst fault."

"I'm afraid it's really my best."

"You don't care," said Madame Merle gravely.

"No; I don't think I care much. What sort of a fault do you call that?
My indolence, at any rate, was one of the reasons I didn't go to Rome.
But it was only one of them."

"It's not of importance--to me at least--that you didn't go; though I
should have been glad to see you. I'm glad you're not in Rome now--which
you might be, would probably be, if you had gone there a month ago.
There's something I should like you to do at present in Florence."

"Please remember my indolence," said O