"I'm going to Gardencourt. Ralph Touchett's dying."
"Ah, you'll feel that." Madame Merle recovered herself; she had a
chance to express sympathy. "Do you go alone?"
"Yes; without my husband."
Madame Merle gave a low vague murmur; a sort of recognition of the
general sadness of things. "Mr. Touchett never liked me, but I'm sorry
he's dying. Shall you see his mother?"
"Yes; she has returned from America."
"She used to be very kind to me; but she has changed. Others too
have changed," said Madame Merle with a quiet noble pathos. She paused
a moment, then added: "And you'll see dear old Gardencourt again!"
"I shall not enjoy it much," Isabel answered.
"Naturally-in your grief. But it's on the whole, of all the houses I
know, and I know many, the one I should have liked best to live in.
I don't venture to send a message to the people," Madame Merle
added; "but I should like to give my love to the place."
Isabel turned away. "I had better go to Pansy. I've not much time."
When she looked about her for the proper egress, the door opened and
admitted one of the ladies of the house, who advanced with a
discreet smile, gently rubbing, under her long loose sleeves, a pair
of plump white hands.
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