all see the little girls who are being
educated. I'm very fond of little girls," said Pansy with an effect
of diminutive grandeur. "And I'm also very fond of Mother Catherine. I
shall be very quiet and think a great deal."

Isabel listened to her, holding her breath; she was almost awe-struck.
"Think of ME sometimes."

"Ah, come and see me soon!" cried Pansy; and the cry was very different
from the heroic remarks of which she had just delivered herself.

Isabel could say nothing more; she understood nothing; she only felt how
little she yet knew her husband. Her answer to his daughter was a long,
tender kiss.

Half an hour later she learned from her maid that Madame Catherine had
arrived in a cab and had departed again with the signorina. On going to
the drawing-room before dinner she found the Countess Gemini alone, and
this lady characterised the incident by exclaiming, with a wonderful
toss of the head, "En voila, ma chere, une pose!" But if it was an
affectation she was at a loss to see what her husband affected. She
could only dimly perceive that he had more traditions than she supposed.
It had become her habit to be so careful as to what she said to him
that, strange as it may appear, she hesitated, for several minutes after
he had come in, to allude to his daughter's sudden departure: she
spoke of it only after they were seated at table. But she had forbidden
herself ever to ask Osmond a question. All she could do was to make a
declaration, and there was one that came very naturally. "I shall miss
Pansy very much."

He looked a while, with his head inclined a little, at the basket of
flowers in the middle of the table. "Ah yes," he said at last, "I had
thought of that. You must go and see her, you know; but not too often. I
dare say you wonder why I sent her to the good sisters; but I doubt if I
can make you understand. It doesn't matter; don't trouble yourself about
it. That's why I had not spoken of it. I didn't believe you would enter
into it. But I've always had the idea; I've always thought it a part
of the education of one's daughter. One's daughter should be fresh and
fair; she should be innocent and gentle. With the manners of the present
time she is liable to become so dusty and crumpled. Pansy's a little
dusty, a little dishevelled; she has knocked about too much. This
bustling, pushing rabble that calls itself society--one should take her
out of it occasionally. Convents are very quiet, very conve