For Gilbert Osmond Ralph had not now that importance. It was not
that he had the importance of a friend; it was rather that he had none
at all. He was Isabel's cousin and he was rather unpleasantly ill-it
was on this basis that Osmond treated with him. He made the proper
enquiries, asked about his health, about Mrs. Touchett, about his
opinion of winter climates, whether he were comfortable at his
hotel. He addressed him, on the few occasions of their meeting, not
a word that was not necessary; but his manner had always the
urbanity proper to conscious success in the presence of conscious
failure. For all this, Ralph had had, toward the end, a sharp inward
vision of Osmond's making it of small ease to his wife that she should
continue to receive Mr. Touchett. He was not jealous-he had not that
excuse; no one could be jealous of Ralph. But he made Isabel pay for
her old-time kindness, of which so much was still left; and as Ralph
had no idea of her paying too much, so when his suspicion had become
sharp, he had taken himself off. In doing so he had deprived Isabel of
a very interesting occupation: she had been constantly wondering
what fine principle was keeping him alive.
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