Madame Merle was there in her bonnet, and
Gilbert Osmond was talking to her; for a minute they were unaware
she had come in. Isabel had often seen that before, certainly; but
what she had not seen, or at least had not noticed, was that their
colloquy had for the moment converted itself into a sort of familiar
silence, from which she instantly perceived that her entrance would
startle them. Madame Merle was standing on the rug, a little way
from the fire; Osmond was in a deep chair, leaning back and looking at
her. Her head was erect, as usual, but her eyes were bent on his. What
struck Isabel first was that he was sitting while Madame Merle
stood; there was an anomaly in this that arrested her. Then she
perceived that they had arrived at a desultory pause in their exchange
of ideas and were musing, face to face, with the freedom of old
friends who sometimes exchange ideas without uttering them. There
was nothing to shock in this; they were old friends in fact. But the
thing made an image, lasting only a moment, like a sudden flicker of
light. Their relative positions, their absorbed mutual gaze, struck
her as something detected. But it was all over by the time she had
fairly seen it.
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