she had had no personal acquaintance
with wickedness. She had desired a large acquaintance with human life,
and in spite of her having flattered herself that she cultivated it with
some success this elementary privilege had been denied her. Perhaps it
was not wicked--in the historic sense--to be even deeply false; for that
was what Madame Merle had been--deeply, deeply, deeply. Isabel's Aunt
Lydia had made this discovery long before, and had mentioned it to her
niece; but Isabel had flattered herself at this time that she had a much
richer view of things, especially of the spontaneity of her own
career and the nobleness of her own interpretations, than poor
stiffly-reasoning Mrs. Touchett. Madame Merle had done what she wanted;
she had brought about the union of her two friends; a reflection which
could not fail to make it a matter of wonder that she should so much
have desired such an event. There were people who had the match-making
passion, like the votaries of art for art; but Madame Merle, great
artist as she was, was scarcely one of these. She thought too ill of
marriage, too ill even of life; she had desired that particular marriage
but had not desired others. She had therefore had a conception of gain,
and Isabel asked herself where she had found her profit. It took her
naturally a long time to discover, and even then her discovery was
imperfect. It came back to her that Madame Merle, though she had seemed
to like her from their first meeting at Gardencourt, had been doubly
affectionate after Mr. Touchett's death and after learning that her
young friend had been subject to the good old man's charity. She had
found her profit not in the gross device of borrowing money, but in
the more refined idea of introducing one of her intimates to the young
woman's fresh and ingenuous fortune. She had naturally chosen her
closest intimate, and it was already vivid enough to Isabel that Gilbert
occupied this position. She found herself confronted in this manner with
the conviction that the man in the world whom she had supposed to be the
least sordid had married her, like a vulgar adventurer, for her money.
Strange to say, it had never before occurred to her; if she had thought
a good deal of harm of Osmond she had not done him this particular
injury. This was the worst she could think of, and she had been saying
to herself that the worst was still to come. A man might marry a woman
for her money perfectly well; the thing was