a man who was so fine--!" she
exclaimed in a long murmur.

"I was never so fine as you. You've done everything you wanted. You've
got him out of the say without appearing to do so, and you've placed
me in the position in which you wished to see me--that of a man who has
tried to marry his daughter to a lord, but has grotesquely failed."

"Pansy doesn't care for him. She's very glad he's gone," Isabel said.

"That has nothing to do with the matter."

"And he doesn't care for Pansy."

"That won't do; you told me he did. I don't know why you wanted this
particular satisfaction," Osmond continued; "you might have taken some
other. It doesn't seem to me that I've been presumptuous--that I have
taken too much for granted. I've been very modest about it, very quiet.
The idea didn't originate with me. He began to show that he liked her
before I ever thought of it. I left it all to you."

"Yes, you were very glad to leave it to me. After this you must attend
to such things yourself."

He looked at her a moment; then he turned away. "I thought you were very
fond of my daughter."

"I've never been more so than to-day."

"Your affection is attended with immense limitations. However, that
perhaps is natural."

"Is this all you wished to say to me?" Isabel asked, taking a candle
that stood on one of the tables.

"Are you satisfied? Am I sufficiently disappointed?"

"I don't think that on the whole you're disappointed. You've had another
opportunity to try to stupefy me."

"It's not that. It's proved that Pansy can aim high."

"Poor little Pansy!" said Isabel as she turned away with her candle.

CHAPTER XLVII

It was from Henrietta Stackpole that she learned how Caspar Goodwood had
come to Rome; an event that took place three days after Lord Warburton's
departure. This latter fact had been preceded by an incident of some
importance to Isabel--the temporary absence, once again, of Madame
Merle, who had gone to Naples to stay with a friend, the happy possessor
of a villa at Posilippo. Madame Merle had ceased to minister to Isabel's
happiness, who found herself wondering whether the most discreet of
women might not also by chance be the most dangerous. Sometimes, at
night, she had strange visions; she seemed to see her husband and her
friend--his friend--in dim, indistinguishable combination. It seemed to
her that she had not done with her; this lady had something in reserve.
Isabel's imagination applied itself a