“That was a natural supposition; but I’m afraid it’s not the first time I’ve acted in defiance of your calculations.”
“Yes,” said Madame Merle, “I think you very perverse.”
Mr. Osmond busied himself for a moment in the room—there was plenty of space in it to move about—in the fashion of a man mechanically seeking pretexts for not giving an attention which may be embarrassing. Presently, however, he had exhausted his pretexts; there was nothing left for him—unless he took up a book—but to stand with his hands behind him looking at Pansy. “Why didn’t you come and see the last of mamman Catherine?” he asked of her abruptly in French.
Pansy hesitated a moment, glancing at Madame Merle. “I asked her to stay with me,” said this lady, who had seated herself again in another place.
“Ah, that was better,” Osmond conceded. With which he dropped into a chair and sat looking at Madame Merle; bent forward a little, his elbows on the edge of the arms and his hands interlocked.
“She’s going to give me some gloves,” said Pansy.
“You needn’t tell that to every one, my dear,” Madame Merle observed.
“You’re very kind to her,” said Osmond. “She’s supposed to have everything she needs.”
“I should think she had had enough of the nuns.”
“If we’re going to discuss that matter she had better go out of the room.”