for old lacquer to excuse me," said Isabel.

"You've a better excuse--the means of going. You're quite wrong in
your theory that I laugh at you. I don't know what has put it into your
head."

"It wouldn't be remarkable if you did think it ridiculous that I should
have the means to travel when you've not; for you know everything and I
know nothing."

"The more reason why you should travel and learn," smiled Osmond.
"Besides," he added as if it were a point to be made, "I don't know
everything."

Isabel was not struck with the oddity of his saying this gravely; she
was thinking that the pleasantest incident of her life--so it pleased
her to qualify these too few days in Rome, which she might musingly have
likened to the figure of some small princess of one of the ages of dress
overmuffled in a mantle of state and dragging a train that it took pages
or historians to hold up--that this felicity was coming to an end. That
most of the interest of the time had been owing to Mr. Osmond was a
reflexion she was not just now at pains to make; she had already done
the point abundant justice. But she said to herself that if there were
a danger they should never meet again, perhaps after all it would be
as well. Happy things don't repeat themselves, and her adventure wore
already the changed, the seaward face of some romantic island from
which, after feasting on purple grapes, she was putting off while the
breeze rose. She might come back to Italy and find him different--this
strange man who pleased her just as he was; and it would be better
not to come than run the risk of that. But if she was not to come the
greater the pity that the chapter was closed; she felt for a moment a
pang that touched the source of tears. The sensation kept her
silent, and Gilbert Osmond was silent too; he was looking at her. "Go
everywhere," he said at last, in a low, kind voice; "do everything; get
everything out of life. Be happy,--be triumphant."

"What do you mean by being triumphant?"

"Well, doing what you like."

"To triumph, then, it seems to me, is to fail! Doing all the vain things
one likes is often very tiresome."

"Exactly," said Osmond with his quiet quickness. "As I intimated just
now, you'll be tired some day." He paused a moment and then he went on:
"I don't know whether I had better not wait till then for something I
want to say to you."

"Ah, I can't advise you without knowing what it is. But I'm horrid when
I'm tired," Isa