, as she herself grew
older, became acquainted with revulsions, with disgusts; there were days
when the world looked black and she asked herself with some sharpness
what it was that she was pretending to live for. Her old habit had
been to live by enthusiasm, to fall in love with suddenly-perceived
possibilities, with the idea of some new adventure. As a younger person
she had been used to proceed from one little exaltation to the other:
there were scarcely any dull places between. But Madame Merle had
suppressed enthusiasm; she fell in love now-a-days with nothing; she
lived entirely by reason and by wisdom. There were hours when Isabel
would have given anything for lessons in this art; if her brilliant
friend had been near she would have made an appeal to her. She had
become aware more than before of the advantage of being like that--of
having made one's self a firm surface, a sort of corselet of silver.

But, as I say, it was not till the winter during which we lately renewed
acquaintance with our heroine that the personage in question made again
a continuous stay in Rome. Isabel now saw more of her than she had done
since her marriage; but by this time Isabel's needs and inclinations
had considerably changed. It was not at present to Madame Merle that she
would have applied for instruction; she had lost the desire to know this
lady's clever trick. If she had troubles she must keep them to herself,
and if life was difficult it would not make it easier to confess herself
beaten. Madame Merle was doubtless of great use to herself and an
ornament to any circle; but was she--would she be--of use to others
in periods of refined embarrassment? The best way to profit by her
friend--this indeed Isabel had always thought--was to imitate her, to be
as firm and bright as she. She recognised no embarrassments, and Isabel,
considering this fact, determined for the fiftieth time to brush aside
her own. It seemed to her too, on the renewal of an intercourse which
had virtually been interrupted, that her old ally was different, was
almost detached--pushing to the extreme a certain rather artificial fear
of being indiscreet. Ralph Touchett, we know, had been of the opinion
that she was prone to exaggeration, to forcing the note--was apt, in the
vulgar phrase, to overdo it. Isabel had never admitted this charge--had
never indeed quite understood it; Madame Merle's conduct, to her
perception, always bore the stamp of good taste, was alw