e other room, he wondered whether, in
making to Mrs. Osmond the profession I have just quoted, he had broken
the spirit of his promise to Madame Merle. Such a question was capable
of occupying this young man's mind for a considerable time. At last,
however, he became--comparatively speaking--reckless; he cared little
what promises he might break. The fate to which he had threatened to
abandon the damsel in pink proved to be none so terrible; for Pansy
Osmond, who had given him the tea for his companion--Pansy was as fond
as ever of making tea--presently came and talked to her. Into this mild
colloquy Edward Rosier entered little; he sat by moodily, watching his
small sweetheart. If we look at her now through his eyes we shall at
first not see much to remind us of the obedient little girl who, at
Florence, three years before, was sent to walk short distances in the
Cascine while her father and Miss Archer talked together of matters
sacred to elder people. But after a moment we shall perceive that if at
nineteen Pansy has become a young lady she doesn't really fill out the
part; that if she has grown very pretty she lacks in a deplorable degree
the quality known and esteemed in the appearance of females as style;
and that if she is dressed with great freshness she wears her smart
attire with an undisguised appearance of saving it--very much as if it
were lent her for the occasion. Edward Rosier, it would seem, would have
been just the man to note these defects; and in point of fact there was
not a quality of this young lady, of any sort, that he had not noted.
Only he called her qualities by names of his own--some of which indeed
were happy enough. "No, she's unique--she's absolutely unique," he used
to say to himself; and you may be sure that not for an instant would he
have admitted to you that she was wanting in style. Style? Why, she had
the style of a little princess; if you couldn't see it you had no eye.
It was not modern, it was not conscious, it would produce no impression
in Broadway; the small, serious damsel, in her stiff little dress, only
looked like an Infanta of Velasquez. This was enough for Edward Rosier,
who thought her delightfully old-fashioned. Her anxious eyes, her
charming lips, her slip of a figure, were as touching as a childish
prayer. He had now an acute desire to know just to what point she liked
him--a desire which made him fidget as he sat in his chair. It made him
feel hot, so that he had to