t. It must
be a charming thing. And then, you know, I've a devotion to the memory
of your uncle: you made me take a great fancy to him. I should like to
see where he lived and died. That indeed is a detail. Your friend was
right. Pansy ought to see England."

"I've no doubt she would enjoy it," said Isabel.

"But that's a long time hence; next autumn's far off," Osmond continued;
"and meantime there are things that more nearly interest us. Do you
think me so very proud?" he suddenly asked.

"I think you very strange."

"You don't understand me."

"No, not even when you insult me."

"I don't insult you; I'm incapable of it. I merely speak of certain
facts, and if the allusion's an injury to you the fault's not mine.
It's surely a fact that you have kept all this matter quite in your own
hands."

"Are you going back to Lord Warburton?" Isabel asked. "I'm very tired of
his name."

"You shall hear it again before we've done with it."

She had spoken of his insulting her, but it suddenly seemed to her that
this ceased to be a pain. He was going down--down; the vision of such a
fall made her almost giddy: that was the only pain. He was too strange,
too different; he didn't touch her. Still, the working of his morbid
passion was extraordinary, and she felt a rising curiosity to know in
what light he saw himself justified. "I might say to you that I judge
you've nothing to say to me that's worth hearing," she returned in a
moment. "But I should perhaps be wrong. There's a thing that would be
worth my hearing--to know in the plainest words of what it is you accuse
me."

"Of having prevented Pansy's marriage to Warburton. Are those words
plain enough?"

"On the contrary, I took a great interest in it. I told you so; and when
you told me that you counted on me--that I think was what you said--I
accepted the obligation. I was a fool to do so, but I did it."

"You pretended to do it, and you even pretended reluctance to make me
more willing to trust you. Then you began to use your ingenuity to get
him out of the way."

"I think I see what you mean," said Isabel.

"Where's the letter you told me he had written me?" her husband
demanded.

"I haven't the least idea; I haven't asked him."

"You stopped it on the way," said Osmond.

Isabel slowly got up; standing there in her white cloak, which covered
her to her feet, she might have represented the angel of disdain, first
cousin to that of pity. "Oh, Gilbert, for