Madame Merle has played for me several times; that's what I like
best about Madame Merle; she has great facility. I shall never have
facility. And I've no voice- just a small sound like the squeak of a
slate-pencil making flourishes."
Isabel gratified this respectful wish, drew off her gloves and sat
down to the piano, while Pansy, standing beside her, watched her white
hands move quickly over the keys. When she stopped she kissed the
child good-bye, held her close, looked at her long. "Be very good,"
she said; "give pleasure to your father."
"I think that's what I live for," Pansy answered. "He has not much
pleasure; he's rather a sad man."
Isabel listened to this assertion with an interest which she felt it
almost a torment to be obliged to conceal. It was her pride that
obliged her, and a certain sense of decency; there were still other
things in her head which she felt a strong impulse, instantly checked,
to say to Pansy about her father; there were things it would have
given her pleasure to hear the child, to make the child, say. But
she no sooner became conscious of these things than her imagination
was hushed with horror at the idea of taking advantage of the little
girl- it was of this she would have accused herself- and of exhaling
into that air where he might still have a subtle sense for it any
breath of her charmed state.
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