self-analysis? However this
might be, Ralph could not resist so easy an opportunity. "Afraid of your
husband?"

"Afraid of myself!" she said, getting up. She stood there a moment and
then added: "If I were afraid of my husband that would be simply my
duty. That's what women are expected to be."

"Ah yes," laughed Ralph; "but to make up for it there's always some man
awfully afraid of some woman!"

She gave no heed to this pleasantry, but suddenly took a different
turn. "With Henrietta at the head of your little band," she exclaimed
abruptly, "there will be nothing left for Mr. Goodwood!"

"Ah, my dear Isabel," Ralph answered, "he's used to that. There is
nothing left for Mr. Goodwood."

She coloured and then observed, quickly, that she must leave him. They
stood together a moment; both her hands were in both of his. "You've
been my best friend," she said.

"It was for you that I wanted--that I wanted to live. But I'm of no use
to you."

Then it came over her more poignantly that she should not see him again.
She could not accept that; she could not part with him that way. "If you
should send for me I'd come," she said at last.

"Your husband won't consent to that."

"Oh yes, I can arrange it."

"I shall keep that for my last pleasure!" said Ralph.

In answer to which she simply kissed him. It was a Thursday, and that
evening Caspar Goodwood came to Palazzo Roccanera. He was among the
first to arrive, and he spent some time in conversation with Gilbert
Osmond, who almost always was present when his wife received. They sat
down together, and Osmond, talkative, communicative, expansive, seemed
possessed with a kind of intellectual gaiety. He leaned back with his
legs crossed, lounging and chatting, while Goodwood, more restless, but
not at all lively, shifted his position, played with his hat, made the
little sofa creak beneath him. Osmond's face wore a sharp, aggressive
smile; he was as a man whose perceptions have been quickened by good
news. He remarked to Goodwood that he was sorry they were to lose him;
he himself should particularly miss him. He saw so few intelligent
men--they were surprisingly scarce in Rome. He must be sure to come
back; there was something very refreshing, to an inveterate Italian like
himself, in talking with a genuine outsider.

"I'm very fond of Rome, you know," Osmond said; "but there's nothing
I like better than to meet people who haven't that superstition. The
modern world'