Ralph
was certain that this was her situation; he knew by instinct, in
advance, the form that in such an event Osmond's displeasure would
take. It could only take the meanest and cruellest. He would have
liked to warn Isabel of it-to let her see at least how he judged for
her and how he knew. It little mattered that Isabel would know much
better; it was for his own satisfaction more than for hers that he
longed to show her he was not deceived. He tried and tried again to
make her betray Osmond; he felt cold-blooded, cruel, dishonourable
almost, in doing so. But it scarcely mattered, for he only failed.
What had she come for then, and why did she seem almost to offer him a
chance to violate their tacit convention? Why did she ask him his
advice if she gave him no liberty to answer her? How could they talk
of her domestic embarrassments, as it pleased her humorously to
designate them, if the principal factor was not to be mentioned? These
contradictions were themselves but an indication of her trouble, and
her cry for help, just before, was the only thing he was bound to
consider. "You'll be decidedly at variance, all the same," he said
in a moment.
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