chments, to permit myself
to feel attractions. You mean to stay--to settle? That would be really
comfortable. Ah yes, your aunt's a sort of guarantee; I believe she may
be depended on. Oh, she's an old Florentine; I mean literally an old
one; not a modern outsider. She's a contemporary of the Medici; she must
have been present at the burning of Savonarola, and I'm not sure she
didn't throw a handful of chips into the flame. Her face is very much
like some faces in the early pictures; little, dry, definite faces that
must have had a good deal of expression, but almost always the same one.
Indeed I can show you her portrait in a fresco of Ghirlandaio's. I hope
you don't object to my speaking that way of your aunt, eh? I've an idea
you don't. Perhaps you think that's even worse. I assure you there's
no want of respect in it, to either of you. You know I'm a particular
admirer of Mrs. Touchett."

While Isabel's host exerted himself to entertain her in this somewhat
confidential fashion she looked occasionally at Madame Merle, who met
her eyes with an inattentive smile in which, on this occasion, there
was no infelicitous intimation that our heroine appeared to advantage.
Madame Merle eventually proposed to the Countess Gemini that they
should go into the garden, and the Countess, rising and shaking out
her feathers, began to rustle toward the door. "Poor Miss Archer!" she
exclaimed, surveying the other group with expressive compassion. "She
has been brought quite into the family."

"Miss Archer can certainly have nothing but sympathy for a family to
which you belong," Mr. Osmond answered, with a laugh which, though it
had something of a mocking ring, had also a finer patience.

"I don't know what you mean by that! I'm sure she'll see no harm in
me but what you tell her. I'm better than he says, Miss Archer," the
Countess went on. "I'm only rather an idiot and a bore. Is that all he
has said? Ah then, you keep him in good-humour. Has he opened on one of
his favourite subjects? I give you notice that there are two or three
that he treats a fond. In that case you had better take off your
bonnet."

"I don't think I know what Mr. Osmond's favourite subjects are," said
Isabel, who had risen to her feet.

The Countess assumed for an instant an attitude of intense meditation,
pressing one of her hands, with the finger-tips gathered together, to
her forehead. "I'll tell you in a moment. One's Machiavelli; the other's
Vittoria