"Yes, I told you she has an immense wish to please her father, and
that it would probably take her very far."
"That seems to me a very proper feeling," said Lord Warburton.
"Certainly; it's a very proper feeling." Isabel remained silent
for some moments; the room continued empty; the sound of the music
reached them with its richness softened by the interposing apartments.
Then at last she said: "But it hardly strikes me as the sort of
feeling to which a man would wish to be indebted for a wife."
"I don't know; if the wife's a good one and he thinks she does well!
"Yes, of course you must think that."
"I do; I can't help it. You call that very British, of course."
"No, I don't. I think Pansy would do wonderfully well to marry
you, and I don't know who should know it better than you. But you're
not in love."
"Ah, yes I am, Mrs. Osmond!"
Isabel shook her head. "You like to think you are while you sit here
with me. But that's not how you strike me."
"I'm not like the young man in the doorway. I admit that. But what
makes it so unnatural? Could any one in the world be more loveable
than Miss Osmond?"
"No one, possibly.
Pages:
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780