I don't mean twenty times, but once
comfortably," Isabel added, smiling kindly. "You're not rich enough
for Pansy." "She doesn't care a straw for one's money."
"No, but her father does."
"Ah yes, he has proved that!" cried the young man.
Isabel got up, turning away from him, leaving her old lady without
ceremony; and he occupied himself for the next ten minutes in
pretending to look at Gilbert Osmond's collection of miniatures, which
were neatly arranged on a series of small velvet screens. But he
looked without seeing; his cheek burned; he was too full of his
sense of injury. It was certain that he had never been treated that
way before; he was not used to being thought not good enough. He
knew how good he was, and if such a fallacy had not been so pernicious
he could have laughed at it. He searched again for Pansy, but she
had disappeared, and his main desire was now to get out of the
house. Before doing so he spoke once more to Isabel; it was not
agreeable to him to reflect that he had just said a rude thing to
her-the only point that would now justify a low view of him.
"I referred to Mr. Osmond as I shouldn't have done, a while ago," he
began.
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