English churchyard, the
bowed heads of good friends. Lord Warburton was there, and a group
of gentlemen all unknown to her, several of whom, as she afterwards
learned, were connected with the bank; and there were others whom she
knew. Miss Stackpole was among the first, with honest Mr. Bantling
beside her; and Caspar Goodwood, lifting his head higher than the
rest--bowing it rather less. During much of the time Isabel was
conscious of Mr. Goodwood's gaze; he looked at her somewhat harder than
he usually looked in public, while the others had fixed their eyes upon
the churchyard turf. But she never let him see that she saw him; she
thought of him only to wonder that he was still in England. She found
she had taken for granted that after accompanying Ralph to Gardencourt
he had gone away; she remembered how little it was a country that
pleased him. He was there, however, very distinctly there; and
something in his attitude seemed to say that he was there with a complex
intention. She wouldn't meet his eyes, though there was doubtless
sympathy in them; he made her rather uneasy. With the dispersal of the
little group he disappeared, and the only person who came to speak to
her--though several spoke to Mrs. Touchett--was Henrietta Stackpole.
Henrietta had been crying.

Ralph had said to Isabel that he hoped she would remain at Gardencourt,
and she made no immediate motion to leave the place. She said to herself
that it was but common charity to stay a little with her aunt. It was
fortunate she had so good a formula; otherwise she might have been
greatly in want of one. Her errand was over; she had done what she had
left her husband to do. She had a husband in a foreign city, counting
the hours of her absence; in such a case one needed an excellent motive.
He was not one of the best husbands, but that didn't alter the case.
Certain obligations were involved in the very fact of marriage, and were
quite independent of the quantity of enjoyment extracted from it. Isabel
thought of her husband as little as might be; but now that she was at a
distance, beyond its spell, she thought with a kind of spiritual shudder
of Rome. There was a penetrating chill in the image, and she drew
back into the deepest shade of Gardencourt. She lived from day to day,
postponing, closing her eyes, trying not to think. She knew she must
decide, but she decided nothing; her coming itself had not been a
decision. On that occasion she had simply started