"
Half an hour before Isabel would have listened very coldly to an
intimation that she should ever feel a desire for the sympathy of
her sister-in-law, and there can be no better proof of her present
embarrassment than the fact that she almost clutched at this lady's
fluttering attention. "I've been with Osmond," she said, while the
Countess's bright eyes glittered at her.
"I'm sure then he has been odious!" the Countess cried. "Did he
say he was glad poor Mr. Touchett's dying?"
"He said it's impossible I should go to England."
The Countess's mind, when her interests were concerned, was agile;
she already foresaw the extinction of any further brightness in her
visit to Rome. Ralph Touchett would die, Isabel would go into
mourning, and then there would be no more dinner-parties. Such a
prospect produced for a moment in her countenance an expressive
grimace; but this rapid, picturesque play of feature was her only
tribute to disappointment. After all, she reflected, the game was
almost played out; she had already overstayed her invitation. And then
she cared enough for Isabel's trouble to forget her own, and she saw
that Isabel's trouble was deep.
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