el's visitor; he might go of
his own movement, but wouldn't be dismissed. "There's one thing more.
I haven't asked anything of you--not even a thought in the future; you
must do me that justice. But there's a little service I should like to
ask. I shall not return home for several days; Rome's delightful, and
it's a good place for a man in my state of mind. Oh, I know you're sorry
to leave it; but you're right to do what your aunt wishes."

"She doesn't even wish it!" Isabel broke out strangely.

Osmond was apparently on the point of saying something that would match
these words, but he changed his mind and rejoined simply: "Ah well, it's
proper you should go with her, very proper. Do everything that's proper;
I go in for that. Excuse my being so patronising. You say you don't
know me, but when you do you'll discover what a worship I have for
propriety."

"You're not conventional?" Isabel gravely asked.

"I like the way you utter that word! No, I'm not conventional: I'm
convention itself. You don't understand that?" And he paused a moment,
smiling. "I should like to explain it." Then with a sudden, quick,
bright naturalness, "Do come back again," he pleaded. "There are so many
things we might talk about."

She stood there with lowered eyes. "What service did you speak of just
now?"

"Go and see my little daughter before you leave Florence. She's alone at
the villa; I decided not to send her to my sister, who hasn't at all my
ideas. Tell her she must love her poor father very much," said Gilbert
Osmond gently.

"It will be a great pleasure to me to go," Isabel answered. "I'll tell
her what you say. Once more good-bye."

On this he took a rapid, respectful leave. When he had gone she stood
a moment looking about her and seated herself slowly and with an air of
deliberation. She sat there till her companions came back, with
folded hands, gazing at the ugly carpet. Her agitation--for it had not
diminished--was very still, very deep. What had happened was something
that for a week past her imagination had been going forward to meet; but
here, when it came, she stopped--that sublime principle somehow broke
down. The working of this young lady's spirit was strange, and I can
only give it to you as I see it, not hoping to make it seem altogether
natural. Her imagination, as I say, now hung back: there was a last
vague space it couldn't cross--a dusky, uncertain tract which looked
ambiguous and even slightly treacherou