Isabel sat there half an hour,
and Pansy rose to the occasion as the small, winged fairy in the
pantomime soars by the aid of the dissimulated wire- not chattering,
but conversing, and showing the same respectful interest in Isabel's
affairs that Isabel was so good to take in hers. Isabel wondered at
her; she had never had so directly presented to her nose the white
flower of cultivated sweetness. How well the child had been taught,
said our admiring young woman; how prettily she had been directed
and fashioned; and yet how simple, how natural, how innocent she had
been kept! Isabel was fond, ever, of the question of character and
quality, of sounding, as who should say, the deep personal mystery,
and it had pleased her, up to this time, to be in doubt as to
whether this tender slip were not really all-knowing. Was the
extremity of her candour but the perfection of self-consciousness? Was
it put on to please her father's visitor, or was it the direct
expression of an unspotted nature? The hour that Isabel spent in Mr.
Osmond's beautiful empty, dusky rooms- the windows had been
half-darkened, to keep out the heat, and here and there, through an
easy crevice, the splendid summer day peeped in, lighting a gleam of
faded colour or tarnished gilt in the rich gloom- her interview with
the daughter of the house, I say, effectually settled this question.
Pages:
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551