Pansy was really a blank page, a pure white surface, successfully kept
so; she had neither art, nor guile, nor temper, nor talent- only two
or three small exquisite instincts: for knowing a friend, for avoiding
a mistake, for taking care of an old toy or a new frock. Yet to be
so tender was to be touching withal, and she could be felt as an
easy victim of fate. She would have no will, no power to resist, no
sense of her own importance; she would easily be mystified, easily
crushed: her force would be all in knowing when and where to cling.
She moved about the place with her visitor, who had asked leave to
walk through the other rooms again, where Pansy gave her judgement
on several works of art. She spoke of her prospects, her
occupations, her father's intentions; she was not egotistical, but
felt the propriety of supplying the information so distinguished a
guest would naturally expect.
"Please tell me," she said, "did papa, in Rome, go to see Madame
Catherine? He told me he would if he had time. Perhaps he had not
time. Papa likes a great deal of time. He wished to speak about my
education; it isn't finished yet, you know. I don't know what they can
do with me more; but it appears it's far from finished.
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