now Mr. Osmond?" he enquired.

"A little. And she doesn't like him. But of course I don't marry to
please Henrietta," she added. It would have been better for poor Caspar
if she had tried a little more to gratify Miss Stackpole; but he didn't
say so; he only asked, presently, when her marriage would take place. To
which she made answer that she didn't know yet. "I can only say it will
be soon. I've told no one but yourself and one other person--an old
friend of Mr. Osmond's."

"Is it a marriage your friends won't like?" he demanded.

"I really haven't an idea. As I say, I don't marry for my friends."

He went on, making no exclamation, no comment, only asking questions,
doing it quite without delicacy. "Who and what then is Mr. Gilbert
Osmond?"

"Who and what? Nobody and nothing but a very good and very honourable
man. He's not in business," said Isabel. "He's not rich; he's not known
for anything in particular."

She disliked Mr. Goodwood's questions, but she said to herself that she
owed it to him to satisfy him as far as possible. The satisfaction poor
Caspar exhibited was, however, small; he sat very upright, gazing at
her. "Where does he come from? Where does he belong?"

She had never been so little pleased with the way he said "belawng." "He
comes from nowhere. He has spent most of his life in Italy."

"You said in your letter he was American. Hasn't he a native place?"

"Yes, but he has forgotten it. He left it as a small boy."

"Has he never gone back?"

"Why should he go back?" Isabel asked, flushing all defensively. "He has
no profession."

"He might have gone back for his pleasure. Doesn't he like the United
States?"

"He doesn't know them. Then he's very quiet and very simple--he contents
himself with Italy."

"With Italy and with you," said Mr. Goodwood with gloomy plainness and
no appearance of trying to make an epigram. "What has he ever done?" he
added abruptly.

"That I should marry him? Nothing at all," Isabel replied while her
patience helped itself by turning a little to hardness. "If he had done
great things would you forgive me any better? Give me up, Mr. Goodwood;
I'm marrying a perfect nonentity. Don't try to take an interest in him.
You can't."

"I can't appreciate him; that's what you mean. And you don't mean in
the least that he's a perfect nonentity. You think he's grand, you think
he's great, though no one else thinks so."

Isabel's colour deepened; she felt this reall