"Exactly. I've nothing I wish to match."
Poor Rosier was aware he had blushed; he was distressed at his
want of assurance. "Ah, well, I have!" was all he could murmur; and he
knew his murmur was partly lost as he turned away. He took his
course to the adjoining room and met Mrs. Osmond coming out of the
deep doorway. She was dressed in black velvet; she looked high and
splendid, as he had said, and yet oh so radiantly gentle! We know what
Mr. Rosier thought of her and the terms in which, to Madame Merle,
he had expressed his admiration. Like his appreciation of her dear
little stepdaughter it was based partly on his eye for decorative
character, his instinct for authenticity; but also on a sense for
uncatalogued values, for that secret of a "lustre" beyond any recorded
losing or rediscovering, which his devotion to brittle wares had still
not disqualified him to recognize. Mrs. Osmond, at present, might well
have gratified such tastes. The years had touched her only to enrich
her; the flower of her youth had not faded, it only hung more
quietly on its stem. She had lost something of that quick eagerness to
which her husband had privately taken exception-she had more the air
of being able to wait.
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