lings as if he were
commissioned to answer for them.

That was all he had had an ear for in what his host said to him this
evening; he had been conscious that Osmond made more of a point even
than usual of referring to the conjugal harmony prevailing at Palazzo
Roccanera. He had been more careful than ever to speak as if he and his
wife had all things in sweet community and it were as natural to each
of them to say "we" as to say "I". In all this there was an air of
intention that had puzzled and angered our poor Bostonian, who could
only reflect for his comfort that Mrs. Osmond's relations with her
husband were none of his business. He had no proof whatever that her
husband misrepresented her, and if he judged her by the surface of
things was bound to believe that she liked her life. She had never given
him the faintest sign of discontent. Miss Stackpole had told him that
she had lost her illusions, but writing for the papers had made Miss
Stackpole sensational. She was too fond of early news. Moreover, since
her arrival in Rome she had been much on her guard; she had pretty well
ceased to flash her lantern at him. This indeed, it may be said for
her, would have been quite against her conscience. She had now seen
the reality of Isabel's situation, and it had inspired her with a just
reserve. Whatever could be done to improve it the most useful form of
assistance would not be to inflame her former lovers with a sense of her
wrongs. Miss Stackpole continued to take a deep interest in the state
of Mr. Goodwood's feelings, but she showed it at present only by sending
him choice extracts, humorous and other, from the American journals, of
which she received several by every post and which she always perused
with a pair of scissors in her hand. The articles she cut out she placed
in an envelope addressed to Mr. Goodwood, which she left with her own
hand at his hotel. He never asked her a question about Isabel: hadn't
he come five thousand miles to see for himself? He was thus not in the
least authorised to think Mrs. Osmond unhappy; but the very absence of
authorisation operated as an irritant, ministered to the harsh-ness
with which, in spite of his theory that he had ceased to care, he now
recognised that, so far as she was concerned, the future had nothing
more for him. He had not even the satisfaction of knowing the truth;
apparently he could not even be trusted to respect her if she WERE
unhappy. He was hopeless, helple