The Portrait of a Lady — Volume 1

by Henry James

  CHAPTER XXIV

  It would certainly have been hard to see what injury could arise toher from the visit she presently paid to Mr. Osmond's hill-top. Nothingcould have been more charming than this occasion--a soft afternoon inthe full maturity of the Tuscan spring. The companions drove out of theRoman Gate, beneath the enormous blank superstructure which crowns thefine clear arch of that portal and makes it nakedly impressive, andwound between high-walled lanes into which the wealth of blossomingorchards over-drooped and flung a fragrance, until they reached thesmall superurban piazza, of crooked shape, where the long brown wall ofthe villa occupied in part by Mr. Osmond formed a principal, or at leasta very imposing, object. Isabel went with her friend through a wide,high court, where a clear shadow rested below and a pair of light-archedgalleries, facing each other above, caught the upper sunshine upon theirslim columns and the flowering plants in which they were dressed. Therewas something grave and strong in the place; it looked somehow asif, once you were in, you would need an act of energy to get out. ForIsabel, however, there was of course as yet no thought of getting out,but only of advancing. Mr. Osmond met her in the cold ante-chamber--itwas cold even in the month of May--and ushered her, with herconductress, into the apartment to which we have already beenintroduced. Madame Merle was in front, and while Isabel lingered alittle, talking with him, she went forward familiarly and greeted twopersons who were seated in the saloon. One of these was little Pansy, onwhom she bestowed a kiss; the other was a lady whom Mr. Osmond indicatedto Isabel as his sister, the Countess Gemini. "And that's my littlegirl," he said, "who has just come out of her convent."

  Pansy had on a scant white dress, and her fair hair was neatly arrangedin a net; she wore her small shoes tied sandal-fashion about her ankles.She made Isabel a little conventual curtsey and then came to be kissed.The Countess Gemini simply nodded without getting up: Isabel could seeshe was a woman of high fashion. She was thin and dark and not atall pretty, having features that suggested some tropical bird--a longbeak-like nose, small, quickly-moving eyes and a mouth and chinthat receded extremely. Her expression, however, thanks to variousintensities of emphasis and wonder, of horror and joy, was not inhuman,and, as regards her appearance, it was plain she understood herselfand made the most of her points. Her attire, voluminous and delicate,bristling with elegance, had the look of shimmering plumage, and herattitudes were as light and sudden as those of a creature who perchedupon twigs. She had a great deal of manner; Isabel, who had neverknown any one with so much manner, immediately classed her as the mostaffected of women. She remembered that Ralph had not recommended her asan acquaintance; but she was ready to acknowledge that to a casual viewthe Countess Gemini revealed no depths. Her demonstrations suggested theviolent waving of some flag of general truce--white silk with flutteringstreamers.

  "You'll believe I'm glad to see you when I tell you it's only becauseI knew you were to be here that I came myself. I don't come and see mybrother--I make him come and see me. This hill of his is impossible--Idon't see what possesses him. Really, Osmond, you'll be the ruin of myhorses some day, and if it hurts them you'll have to give me anotherpair. I heard them wheezing to-day; I assure you I did. It's verydisagreeable to hear one's horses wheezing when one's sitting in thecarriage; it sounds too as if they weren't what they should be. ButI've always had good horses; whatever else I may have lacked I've alwaysmanaged that. My husband doesn't know much, but I think he knows ahorse. In general Italians don't, but my husband goes in, according tohis poor light, for everything English. My horses are English--so it'sall the greater pity they should be ruined. I must tell you," she wenton, directly addressing Isabel, "that Osmond doesn't often invite me;I don't think he likes to have me. It was quite my own idea, comingto-day. I like to see new people, and I'm sure you're very new. Butdon't sit there; that chair's not what it looks. There are some verygood seats here, but there are also some horrors."

  These remarks were delivered with a series of little jerks and pecks, ofroulades of shrillness, and in an accent that was as some fond recall ofgood English, or rather of good American, in adversity.

  "I don't like to have you, my dear?" said her brother. "I'm sure you'reinvaluable."

  "I don't see any horrors anywhere," Isabel returned, looking about her."Everything seems to me beautiful and precious."

  "I've a few good things," Mr. Osmond allowed; "indeed I've nothing verybad. But I've not what I should have liked."

  He stood there a little awkwardly, smiling and glancing about; hismanner was an odd mixture of the detached and the involved. He seemed tohint that nothing but the right "values" was of any consequence. Isabelmade a rapid induction: perfect simplicity was not the badge of hisfamily. Even the little girl from the convent, who, in her prim whitedress, with her small submissive face and her hands locked before her,stood there as if she were about to partake of her first communion,even Mr. Osmond's diminutive daughter had a kind of finish that was notentirely artless.

  "You'd have liked a few things from the Uffizi and the Pitti--that's whatyou'd have liked," said Madame Merle.

  "Poor Osmond, with his old curtains and crucifixes!" the Countess Geminiexclaimed: she appeared to call her brother only by his family-name. Herejaculation had no particular object; she smiled at Isabel as she madeit and looked at her from head to foot.

  Her brother had not heard her; he seemed to be thinking what he couldsay to Isabel. "Won't you have some tea?--you must be very tired," he atlast bethought himself of remarking.

  "No indeed, I'm not tired; what have I done to tire me?" Isabel felt acertain need of being very direct, of pretending to nothing; there wassomething in the air, in her general impression of things--she couldhardly have said what it was--that deprived her of all disposition toput herself forward. The place, the occasion, the combination of people,signified more than lay on the surface; she would try to understand--shewould not simply utter graceful platitudes. Poor Isabel was doubtlessnot aware that many women would have uttered graceful platitudes tocover the working of their observation. It must be confessed that herpride was a trifle alarmed. A man she had heard spoken of in termsthat excited interest and who was evidently capable of distinguishinghimself, had invited her, a young lady not lavish of her favours,to come to his house. Now that she had done so the burden of theentertainment rested naturally on his wit. Isabel was not renderedless observant, and for the moment, we judge, she was not renderedmore indulgent, by perceiving that Mr. Osmond carried his burden lesscomplacently than might have been expected. "What a fool I was tohave let myself so needlessly in--!" she could fancy his exclaiming tohimself.

  "You'll be tired when you go home, if he shows you all his bibelots andgives you a lecture on each," said the Countess Gemini.

  "I'm not afraid of that; but if I'm tired I shall at least have learnedsomething."

  "Very little, I suspect. But my sister's dreadfully afraid of learninganything," said Mr. Osmond.

  "Oh, I confess to that; I don't want to know anything more--I know toomuch already. The more you know the more unhappy you are."

  "You should not undervalue knowledge before Pansy, who has not finishedher education," Madame Merle interposed with a smile. "Pansy willnever know any harm," said the child's father. "Pansy's a littleconvent-flower."

  "Oh, the convents, the convents!" cried the Countess with a flutter ofher ruffles. "Speak to me of the convents! You may learn anything there;I'm a convent-flower myself. I don't pretend to be good, but the nunsdo. Don't you see what I mean?" she went on, appealing to Isabel.

  Isabel was not sure she saw, and she answered that she was very badat following arguments. The Countess then declared that she herselfdetested arguments, but that this was her brother's taste--he wouldalways discuss. "For me," she said, "one should like a thing or oneshouldn't; one can't like everything, of course. But one shouldn'tattempt to reason it out--you never know where it may lead you. Thereare some very good feelings that may have bad reasons, don't you know?And then there are ve
ry bad feelings, sometimes, that have good reasons.Don't you see what I mean? I don't care anything about reasons, but Iknow what I like."

  "Ah, that's the great thing," said Isabel, smiling and suspecting thather acquaintance with this lightly flitting personage would not lead tointellectual repose. If the Countess objected to argument Isabel at thismoment had as little taste for it, and she put out her hand to Pansywith a pleasant sense that such a gesture committed her to nothing thatwould admit of a divergence of views. Gilbert Osmond apparently took arather hopeless view of his sister's tone; he turned the conversation toanother topic. He presently sat down on the other side of his daughter,who had shyly brushed Isabel's fingers with her own; but he ended bydrawing her out of her chair and making her stand between his knees,leaning against him while he passed his arm round her slimness. Thechild fixed her eyes on Isabel with a still, disinterested gaze whichseemed void of an intention, yet conscious of an attraction. Mr. Osmondtalked of many things; Madame Merle had said he could be agreeablewhen he chose, and to-day, after a little, he appeared not only to havechosen but to have determined. Madame Merle and the Countess Gemini sata little apart, conversing in the effortless manner of persons who kneweach other well enough to take their ease; but every now and then Isabelheard the Countess, at something said by her companion, plunge into thelatter's lucidity as a poodle splashes after a thrown stick. It was asif Madame Merle were seeing how far she would go. Mr. Osmond talked ofFlorence, of Italy, of the pleasure of living in that country and of theabatements to the pleasure. There were both satisfactions and drawbacks;the drawbacks were numerous; strangers were too apt to see such a worldas all romantic. It met the case soothingly for the human, for thesocial failure--by which he meant the people who couldn't "realise," asthey said, on their sensibility: they could keep it about them there,in their poverty, without ridicule, as you might keep an heirloom or aninconvenient entailed place that brought you in nothing. Thus there wereadvantages in living in the country which contained the greatest sum ofbeauty. Certain impressions you could get only there. Others, favourableto life, you never got, and you got some that were very bad. But fromtime to time you got one of a quality that made up for everything.Italy, all the same, had spoiled a great many people; he was evenfatuous enough to believe at times that he himself might have been abetter man if he had spent less of his life there. It made one idle anddilettantish and second-rate; it had no discipline for the character,didn't cultivate in you, otherwise expressed, the successful socialand other "cheek" that flourished in Paris and London. "We're sweetlyprovincial," said Mr. Osmond, "and I'm perfectly aware that I myself amas rusty as a key that has no lock to fit it. It polishes me up a littleto talk with you--not that I venture to pretend I can turn that verycomplicated lock I suspect your intellect of being! But you'll be goingaway before I've seen you three times, and I shall perhaps never see youafter that. That's what it is to live in a country that people come to.When they're disagreeable here it's bad enough; when they're agreeableit's still worse. As soon as you like them they're off again! I've beendeceived too often; I've ceased to form attachments, to permit myselfto feel attractions. You mean to stay--to settle? That would be reallycomfortable. Ah yes, your aunt's a sort of guarantee; I believe she maybe depended on. Oh, she's an old Florentine; I mean literally an oldone; not a modern outsider. She's a contemporary of the Medici; she musthave been present at the burning of Savonarola, and I'm not sure shedidn't throw a handful of chips into the flame. Her face is very muchlike some faces in the early pictures; little, dry, definite faces thatmust have had a good deal of expression, but almost always the same one.Indeed I can show you her portrait in a fresco of Ghirlandaio's. I hopeyou don't object to my speaking that way of your aunt, eh? I've an ideayou don't. Perhaps you think that's even worse. I assure you there'sno want of respect in it, to either of you. You know I'm a particularadmirer of Mrs. Touchett."

  While Isabel's host exerted himself to entertain her in this somewhatconfidential fashion she looked occasionally at Madame Merle, who mether eyes with an inattentive smile in which, on this occasion, therewas no infelicitous intimation that our heroine appeared to advantage.Madame Merle eventually proposed to the Countess Gemini that theyshould go into the garden, and the Countess, rising and shaking outher feathers, began to rustle toward the door. "Poor Miss Archer!" sheexclaimed, surveying the other group with expressive compassion. "Shehas been brought quite into the family."

  "Miss Archer can certainly have nothing but sympathy for a family towhich you belong," Mr. Osmond answered, with a laugh which, though ithad something of a mocking ring, had also a finer patience.

  "I don't know what you mean by that! I'm sure she'll see no harm inme but what you tell her. I'm better than he says, Miss Archer," theCountess went on. "I'm only rather an idiot and a bore. Is that all hehas said? Ah then, you keep him in good-humour. Has he opened on one ofhis favourite subjects? I give you notice that there are two or threethat he treats a fond. In that case you had better take off yourbonnet."

  "I don't think I know what Mr. Osmond's favourite subjects are," saidIsabel, who had risen to her feet.

  The Countess assumed for an instant an attitude of intense meditation,pressing one of her hands, with the finger-tips gathered together, toher forehead. "I'll tell you in a moment. One's Machiavelli; the other'sVittoria Colonna; the next is Metastasio."

  "Ah, with me," said Madame Merle, passing her arm into the CountessGemini's as if to guide her course to the garden, "Mr. Osmond's never sohistorical."

  "Oh you," the Countess answered as they moved away, "you yourself areMachiavelli--you yourself are Vittoria Colonna!"

  "We shall hear next that poor Madame Merle is Metastasio!" GilbertOsmond resignedly sighed.

  Isabel had got up on the assumption that they too were to go into thegarden; but her host stood there with no apparent inclination to leavethe room, his hands in the pockets of his jacket and his daughter, whohad now locked her arm into one of his own, clinging to him and lookingup while her eyes moved from his own face to Isabel's. Isabel waited,with a certain unuttered contentedness, to have her movements directed;she liked Mr. Osmond's talk, his company: she had what always gave hera very private thrill, the consciousness of a new relation. Throughthe open doors of the great room she saw Madame Merle and the Countessstroll across the fine grass of the garden; then she turned, and hereyes wandered over the things scattered about her. The understandinghad been that Mr. Osmond should show her his treasures; his pictures andcabinets all looked like treasures. Isabel after a moment went towardone of the pictures to see it better; but just as she had done so hesaid to her abruptly: "Miss Archer, what do you think of my sister?"

  She faced him with some surprise. "Ah, don't ask me that--I've seen yoursister too little."

  "Yes, you've seen her very little; but you must have observed thatthere is not a great deal of her to see. What do you think of our familytone?" he went on with his cool smile. "I should like to know howit strikes a fresh, unprejudiced mind. I know what you're going tosay--you've had almost no observation of it. Of course this is onlya glimpse. But just take notice, in future, if you have a chance. Isometimes think we've got into a rather bad way, living off here amongthings and people not our own, without responsibilities or attachments,with nothing to hold us together or keep us up; marrying foreigners,forming artificial tastes, playing tricks with our natural mission. Letme add, though, that I say that much more for myself than for my sister.She's a very honest lady--more so than she seems. She's ratherunhappy, and as she's not of a serious turn she doesn't tend to showit tragically: she shows it comically instead. She has got a horridhusband, though I'm not sure she makes the best of him. Of course,however, a horrid husband's an awkward thing. Madame Merle gives herexcellent advice, but it's a good deal like giving a child a dictionaryto learn a language with. He can look out the words, but he can't putthem together. My sister needs a grammar, but unfortunately she's notgrammatical. Pardon my troubling you with these details; my
sister wasvery right in saying you've been taken into the family. Let me take downthat picture; you want more light."

  He took down the picture, carried it toward the window, related somecurious facts about it. She looked at the other works of art, and hegave her such further information as might appear most acceptable toa young lady making a call on a summer afternoon. His pictures, hismedallions and tapestries were interesting; but after a while Isabelfelt the owner much more so, and independently of them, thickly as theyseemed to overhang him. He resembled no one she had ever seen; mostof the people she knew might be divided into groups of half a dozenspecimens. There were one or two exceptions to this; she could think forinstance of no group that would contain her aunt Lydia. There were otherpeople who were, relatively speaking, original--original, as one mightsay, by courtesy such as Mr. Goodwood, as her cousin Ralph, as HenriettaStackpole, as Lord Warburton, as Madame Merle. But in essentials, whenone came to look at them, these individuals belonged to types alreadypresent to her mind. Her mind contained no class offering a naturalplace to Mr. Osmond--he was a specimen apart. It was not that sherecognised all these truths at the hour, but they were falling intoorder before her. For the moment she only said to herself that this "newrelation" would perhaps prove her very most distinguished. Madame Merlehad had that note of rarity, but what quite other power it immediatelygained when sounded by a man! It was not so much what he said and did,but rather what he withheld, that marked him for her as by one of thosesigns of the highly curious that he was showing her on the underside ofold plates and in the corner of sixteenth-century drawings: he indulgedin no striking deflections from common usage, he was an original withoutbeing an eccentric. She had never met a person of so fine a grain.The peculiarity was physical, to begin with, and it extended toimpalpabilities. His dense, delicate hair, his overdrawn, retouchedfeatures, his clear complexion, ripe without being coarse, the veryevenness of the growth of his beard, and that light, smooth slendernessof structure which made the movement of a single one of his fingersproduce the effect of an expressive gesture--these personal pointsstruck our sensitive young woman as signs of quality, of intensity,somehow as promises of interest. He was certainly fastidious andcritical; he was probably irritable. His sensibility had governedhim--possibly governed him too much; it had made him impatient ofvulgar troubles and had led him to live by himself, in a sorted, sifted,arranged world, thinking about art and beauty and history. He hadconsulted his taste in everything--his taste alone perhaps, as a sickman consciously incurable consults at last only his lawyer: that waswhat made him so different from every one else. Ralph had something ofthis same quality, this appearance of thinking that life was a matterof connoisseurship; but in Ralph it was an anomaly, a kind of humorousexcrescence, whereas in Mr. Osmond it was the keynote, and everythingwas in harmony with it. She was certainly far from understanding himcompletely; his meaning was not at all times obvious. It was hard to seewhat he meant for instance by speaking of his provincial side--whichwas exactly the side she would have taken him most to lack. Was it aharmless paradox, intended to puzzle her? or was it the last refinementof high culture? She trusted she should learn in time; it would be veryinteresting to learn. If it was provincial to have that harmony, whatthen was the finish of the capital? And she could put this questionin spite of so feeling her host a shy personage; since such shyness ashis--the shyness of ticklish nerves and fine perceptions--was perfectlyconsistent with the best breeding. Indeed it was almost a proof ofstandards and touchstones other than the vulgar: he must be so sure thevulgar would be first on the ground. He wasn't a man of easy assurance,who chatted and gossiped with the fluency of a superficial nature; hewas critical of himself as well as of others, and, exacting a good dealof others, to think them agreeable, probably took a rather ironical viewof what he himself offered: a proof into the bargain that he was notgrossly conceited. If he had not been shy he wouldn't have effected thatgradual, subtle, successful conversion of it to which she owed both whatpleased her in him and what mystified her. If he had suddenly asked herwhat she thought of the Countess Gemini, that was doubtless a proof thathe was interested in her; it could scarcely be as a help to knowledgeof his own sister. That he should be so interested showed an enquiringmind; but it was a little singular he should sacrifice his fraternalfeeling to his curiosity. This was the most eccentric thing he had done.

  There were two other rooms, beyond the one in which she had beenreceived, equally full of romantic objects, and in these apartmentsIsabel spent a quarter of an hour. Everything was in the last degreecurious and precious, and Mr. Osmond continued to be the kindest ofciceroni as he led her from one fine piece to another and still held hislittle girl by the hand. His kindness almost surprised our young friend,who wondered why he should take so much trouble for her; and she wasoppressed at last with the accumulation of beauty and knowledge to whichshe found herself introduced. There was enough for the present; she hadceased to attend to what he said; she listened to him with attentiveeyes, but was not thinking of what he told her. He probably thoughther quicker, cleverer in every way, more prepared, than she was. MadameMerle would have pleasantly exaggerated; which was a pity, because inthe end he would be sure to find out, and then perhaps even her realintelligence wouldn't reconcile him to his mistake. A part of Isabel'sfatigue came from the effort to appear as intelligent as she believedMadame Merle had described her, and from the fear (very unusual withher) of exposing--not her ignorance; for that she cared comparativelylittle--but her possible grossness of perception. It would have annoyedher to express a liking for something he, in his superior enlightenment,would think she oughtn't to like; or to pass by something at which thetruly initiated mind would arrest itself. She had no wish to fall intothat grotesqueness--in which she had seen women (and it was a warning)serenely, yet ignobly, flounder. She was very careful therefore as towhat she said, as to what she noticed or failed to notice; more carefulthan she had ever been before.

  They came back into the first of the rooms, where the tea had beenserved; but as the two other ladies were still on the terrace, and asIsabel had not yet been made acquainted with the view, the paramountdistinction of the place, Mr. Osmond directed her steps into the gardenwithout more delay. Madame Merle and the Countess had had chairs broughtout, and as the afternoon was lovely the Countess proposed they shouldtake their tea in the open air. Pansy therefore was sent to bid theservant bring out the preparations. The sun had got low, the goldenlight took a deeper tone, and on the mountains and the plain thatstretched beneath them the masses of purple shadow glowed as richlyas the places that were still exposed. The scene had an extraordinarycharm. The air was almost solemnly still, and the large expanse of thelandscape, with its garden-like culture and nobleness of outline,its teeming valley and delicately-fretted hills, its peculiarlyhuman-looking touches of habitation, lay there in splendid harmony andclassic grace. "You seem so well pleased that I think you can be trustedto come back," Osmond said as he led his companion to one of the anglesof the terrace.

  "I shall certainly come back," she returned, "in spite of what you sayabout its being bad to live in Italy. What was that you said about one'snatural mission? I wonder if I should forsake my natural mission if Iwere to settle in Florence."

  "A woman's natural mission is to be where she's most appreciated."

  "The point's to find out where that is."

  "Very true--she often wastes a great deal of time in the enquiry. Peopleought to make it very plain to her."

  "Such a matter would have to be made very plain to me," smiled Isabel.

  "I'm glad, at any rate, to hear you talk of settling. Madame Merle hadgiven me an idea that you were of a rather roving disposition. I thoughtshe spoke of your having some plan of going round the world."

  "I'm rather ashamed of my plans; I make a new one every day."

  "I don't see why you should be ashamed; it's the greatest of pleasures."

  "It seems frivolous, I think," said Isabel. "One ought to choosesomething very
deliberately, and be faithful to that."

  "By that rule then, I've not been frivolous."

  "Have you never made plans?"

  "Yes, I made one years ago, and I'm acting on it to-day."

  "It must have been a very pleasant one," Isabel permitted herself toobserve.

  "It was very simple. It was to be as quiet as possible."

  "As quiet?" the girl repeated.

  "Not to worry--not to strive nor struggle. To resign myself. To becontent with little." He spoke these sentences slowly, with short pausesbetween, and his intelligent regard was fixed on his visitor's with theconscious air of a man who has brought himself to confess something.

  "Do you call that simple?" she asked with mild irony.

  "Yes, because it's negative."

  "Has your life been negative?"

  "Call it affirmative if you like. Only it has affirmed my indifference.Mind you, not my natural indifference--I HAD none. But my studied, mywilful renunciation."

  She scarcely understood him; it seemed a question whether he werejoking or not. Why should a man who struck her as having a great fundof reserve suddenly bring himself to be so confidential? This was hisaffair, however, and his confidences were interesting. "I don't see whyyou should have renounced," she said in a moment.

  "Because I could do nothing. I had no prospects, I was poor, and I wasnot a man of genius. I had no talents even; I took my measure early inlife. I was simply the most fastidious young gentleman living. Therewere two or three people in the world I envied--the Emperor of Russia,for instance, and the Sultan of Turkey! There were even moments when Ienvied the Pope of Rome--for the consideration he enjoys. I should havebeen delighted to be considered to that extent; but since that couldn'tbe I didn't care for anything less, and I made up my mind not to goin for honours. The leanest gentleman can always consider himself,and fortunately I was, though lean, a gentleman. I could do nothing inItaly--I couldn't even be an Italian patriot. To do that I should havehad to get out of the country; and I was too fond of it to leave it, tosay nothing of my being too well satisfied with it, on the whole, as itthen was, to wish it altered. So I've passed a great many years here onthat quiet plan I spoke of. I've not been at all unhappy. I don't meanto say I've cared for nothing; but the things I've cared for havebeen definite--limited. The events of my life have been absolutelyunperceived by any one save myself; getting an old silver crucifix at abargain (I've never bought anything dear, of course), or discovering,as I once did, a sketch by Correggio on a panel daubed over by someinspired idiot."

  This would have been rather a dry account of Mr. Osmond's career ifIsabel had fully believed it; but her imagination supplied the humanelement which she was sure had not been wanting. His life had beenmingled with other lives more than he admitted; naturally she couldn'texpect him to enter into this. For the present she abstained fromprovoking further revelations; to intimate that he had not told hereverything would be more familiar and less considerate than she nowdesired to be--would in fact be uproariously vulgar. He had certainlytold her quite enough. It was her present inclination, however, toexpress a measured sympathy for the success with which he had preservedhis independence. "That's a very pleasant life," she said, "to renounceeverything but Correggio!"

  "Oh, I've made in my way a good thing of it. Don't imagine I'm whiningabout it. It's one's own fault if one isn't happy."

  This was large; she kept down to something smaller. "Have you lived herealways?"

  "No, not always. I lived a long time at Naples, and many years inRome. But I've been here a good while. Perhaps I shall have to change,however; to do something else. I've no longer myself to think of. Mydaughter's growing up and may very possibly not care so much for theCorreggios and crucifixes as I. I shall have to do what's best forPansy."

  "Yes, do that," said Isabel. "She's such a dear little girl."

  "Ah," cried Gilbert Osmond beautifully, "she's a little saint of heaven!She is my great happiness!"