on a bold
stare, with which, "Let us assume that I've invented it!" she cried. She
too, however, suddenly changed her tone and, laying her hand on Isabel's
arm, said with the penetration of her sharp bright smile: "Now will you
give up your journey?"

Isabel started a little; she turned away. But she felt weak and in a
moment had to lay her arm upon the mantel-shelf for support. She stood a
minute so, and then upon her arm she dropped her dizzy head, with closed
eyes and pale lips.

"I've done wrong to speak--I've made you ill!" the Countess cried.

"Ah, I must see Ralph!" Isabel wailed; not in resentment, not in
the quick passion her companion had looked for; but in a tone of
far-reaching, infinite sadness.

CHAPTER LII

There was a train for Turin and Paris that evening; and after the
Countess had left her Isabel had a rapid and decisive conference with
her maid, who was discreet, devoted and active. After this she thought
(except of her journey) only of one thing. She must go and see Pansy;
from her she couldn't turn away. She had not seen her yet, as Osmond had
given her to understand that it was too soon to begin. She drove at five
o'clock to a high floor in a narrow street in the quarter of the Piazza
Navona, and was admitted by the portress of the convent, a genial and
obsequious person. Isabel had been at this institution before; she had
come with Pansy to see the sisters. She knew they were good women,
and she saw that the large rooms were clean and cheerful and that
the well-used garden had sun for winter and shade for spring. But she
disliked the place, which affronted and almost frightened her; not for
the world would she have spent a night there. It produced to-day more
than before the impression of a well-appointed prison; for it was not
possible to pretend Pansy was free to leave it. This innocent creature
had been presented to her in a new and violent light, but the secondary
effect of the revelation was to make her reach out a hand.

The portress left her to wait in the parlour of the convent while she
went to make it known that there was a visitor for the dear young lady.
The parlour was a vast, cold apartment, with new-looking furniture; a
large clean stove of white porcelain, unlighted, a collection of wax
flowers under glass, and a series of engravings from religious pictures
on the walls. On the other occasion Isabel had thought it less like Rome
than like Philadelphia, but to-day she ma