But Ralph's little
visit was a lamp in the darkness; for the hour that she sat with him
her ache for herself became somehow her ache for him. She felt
to-day as if he had been her brother. She had never had a brother, but
if she had and she were in trouble and he were dying, he would be dear
to her as Ralph was. Ah yes, if Gilbert was jealous of her there was
perhaps some reason; it didn't make Gilbert look better to sit for
half an hour with Ralph. It was not that they talked of him-it was not
that she complained. His name was never uttered between them. It was
simply that Ralph was generous and that her husband was not. There was
something in Ralph's talk, in his smile, in the mere fact of his being
in Rome, that made the blasted circle round which she walked more
spacious. He made her feel the' good of the world; he made her feel
what might have been. He was after all as intelligent as
Osmond-quite apart from his being better. And thus it seemed to her an
act of devotion to conceal her misery from him. She concealed it
elaborately; she was perpetually, in their talk, hanging out
curtains and arranging screens. It lived before her again-it had never
had time to die-that morning in the garden at Florence when he had
warned her against Osmond.
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