. Her faculties, her energy, her passion,
were all dispersed again; she felt as if a cold, dark mist had suddenly
encompassed her. Osmond possessed in a supreme degree the art of
eliciting any weakness. On her way back to her room she found the
Countess Gemini standing in the open doorway of a little parlour in
which a small collection of heterogeneous books had been arranged.
The Countess had an open volume in her hand; she appeared to have been
glancing down a page which failed to strike her as interesting. At the
sound of Isabel's step she raised her head.

"Ah my dear," she said, "you, who are so literary, do tell me some
amusing book to read! Everything here's of a dreariness--! Do you think
this would do me any good?"

Isabel glanced at the title of the volume she held out, but without
reading or understanding it. "I'm afraid I can't advise you. I've had
bad news. My cousin, Ralph Touchett, is dying."

The Countess threw down her book. "Ah, he was so simpatico. I'm awfully
sorry for you."

"You would be sorrier still if you knew."

"What is there to know? You look very badly," the Countess added. "You
must have been with Osmond."

Half an hour before Isabel would have listened very coldly to an
intimation that she should ever feel a desire for the sympathy of
her sister-in-law, and there can be no better proof of her present
embarrassment than the fact that she almost clutched at this lady's
fluttering attention. "I've been with Osmond," she said, while the
Countess's bright eyes glittered at her.

"I'm sure then he has been odious!" the Countess cried. "Did he say he
was glad poor Mr. Touchett's dying?"

"He said it's impossible I should go to England."

The Countess's mind, when her interests were concerned, was agile; she
already foresaw the extinction of any further brightness in her visit to
Rome. Ralph Touchett would die, Isabel would go into mourning, and then
there would be no more dinner-parties. Such a prospect produced for
a moment in her countenance an expressive grimace; but this rapid,
picturesque play of feature was her only tribute to disappointment.
After all, she reflected, the game was almost played out; she had
already overstayed her invitation. And then she cared enough for
Isabel's trouble to forget her own, and she saw that Isabel's trouble
was deep.

It seemed deeper than the mere death of a cousin, and the Countess had
no hesitation in connecting her exasperating brother with