Colonna; the next is Metastasio."

"Ah, with me," said Madame Merle, passing her arm into the Countess
Gemini's as if to guide her course to the garden, "Mr. Osmond's never so
historical."

"Oh you," the Countess answered as they moved away, "you yourself are
Machiavelli--you yourself are Vittoria Colonna!"

"We shall hear next that poor Madame Merle is Metastasio!" Gilbert
Osmond resignedly sighed.

Isabel had got up on the assumption that they too were to go into the
garden; but her host stood there with no apparent inclination to leave
the room, his hands in the pockets of his jacket and his daughter, who
had now locked her arm into one of his own, clinging to him and looking
up while her eyes moved from his own face to Isabel's. Isabel waited,
with a certain unuttered contentedness, to have her movements directed;
she liked Mr. Osmond's talk, his company: she had what always gave her
a very private thrill, the consciousness of a new relation. Through
the open doors of the great room she saw Madame Merle and the Countess
stroll across the fine grass of the garden; then she turned, and her
eyes wandered over the things scattered about her. The understanding
had been that Mr. Osmond should show her his treasures; his pictures and
cabinets all looked like treasures. Isabel after a moment went toward
one of the pictures to see it better; but just as she had done so he
said to her abruptly: "Miss Archer, what do you think of my sister?"

She faced him with some surprise. "Ah, don't ask me that--I've seen your
sister too little."

"Yes, you've seen her very little; but you must have observed that
there is not a great deal of her to see. What do you think of our family
tone?" he went on with his cool smile. "I should like to know how
it strikes a fresh, unprejudiced mind. I know what you're going to
say--you've had almost no observation of it. Of course this is only
a glimpse. But just take notice, in future, if you have a chance. I
sometimes think we've got into a rather bad way, living off here among
things and people not our own, without responsibilities or attachments,
with nothing to hold us together or keep us up; marrying foreigners,
forming artificial tastes, playing tricks with our natural mission. Let
me add, though, that I say that much more for myself than for my sister.
She's a very honest lady--more so than she seems. She's rather
unhappy, and as she's not of a serious turn she doesn't tend to show
it t