And then moreover Madame Merle never said such things in
the tone of triumph or of boastfulness; they dropped from her like
cold confessions.
A period of bad weather had settled upon Gardencourt; the days
grew shorter and there was an end to the pretty tea-parties on the
lawn. But our young woman had long indoor conversations with her
fellow visitor, and in spite of the rain the two ladies often
sallied forth for a walk, equipped with the defensive apparatus
which the English climate and the English genius have between them
brought to such perfection. Madame Merle liked almost everything,
including the English rain. "There's always a little of it and never
too much at once," she said; "and it never wets you and it always
smells good." She declared that in England the pleasures of smell were
great- that in this inimitable island there was a certain mixture of
fog and beer and soot which, however odd it might sound, was the
national aroma, and was most agreeable to the nostril; and she used to
lift the sleeve of her British overcoat and bury her nose in it,
inhaling the clear, fine scent of the wool. Poor Ralph Touchett, as
soon as the autumn had begun to define itself, became almost a
prisoner; in bad weather he was unable to step out of the house, and
he used sometimes to stand at one of the windows with his hands in his
pockets and, from a countenance half-rueful, half-critical, watch
Isabel and Madame Merle as they walked down the avenue under a pair of
umbrellas.
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