They talked of the Florentine, the
Roman, the cosmopolite world, and might have been distinguished
performers figuring for a charity. It all had the rich readiness
that would have come from rehearsal. Madame Merle appealed to her as
if she had been on the stage, but she could ignore any learnt cue
without spoiling the scene- though of course she thus put dreadfully
in the wrong the friend who had told Mr. Osmond she could be
depended on. This was no matter for once; even if more had been
involved she could have made no attempt to shine. There was
something in the visitor that checked her and held her in suspense-
made it more important she should get an impression of him than that
she should produce one herself. Besides, she had little skill in
producing an impression which she knew to be expected: nothing could
be happier, in general, than to seem dazzling, but she had a
perverse unwillingness to glitter by arrangement. Mr. Osmond, to do
him justice, had a well-bred air of expecting nothing, a quiet ease
that covered everything, even the first show of his own wit. This
was the more grateful as his face, his head, was sensitive; he was not
handsome, but he was fine, as fine as one of the drawings in the
long gallery above the bridge of the Uffizi.
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