“Gilbert Osmond?” Madame Merle widened her clear eyes and, with a full intelligence, “Heaven help us,” she exclaimed, “that’s an idea!”
“Hadn’t it occurred to you?”
“You make me feel an idiot, but I confess it hadn’t. I wonder,” she added, “if it has occurred to Isabel.”
“Oh, I shall now ask her,” said Mrs. Touchett.
Madame Merle reflected. “Don’t put it into her head. The thing would be to ask Mr. Osmond.”
“I can’t do that,” said Mrs. Touchett. “I won’t have him enquire of me—as he perfectly may with that air of his, given Isabel’s situation—what business it is of mine.”
“I’ll ask him myself,” Madame Merle bravely declared.
“But what business—for him—is it of yours?”
“It’s being none whatever is just why I can afford to speak. It’s so much less my business than any one’s else that he can put me off with anything he chooses. But it will be by the way he does this that I shall know.”
“Pray let me hear then,” said Mrs. Touchett, “of the fruits of your penetration. If I can’t speak to him, however, at least I can speak to Isabel.”