“Of course I gave her a chance. But she’s encouraging—she’s very encouraging.”
“I rejoice to hear it—but don’t cry victory too soon. Of course you’ll go to Rome.”
“Ah,” said Osmond, “it makes one work, this idea of yours!”
“Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy it—you’re very ungrateful. You’ve not been so well occupied these many years.”
“The way you take it’s beautiful,” said Osmond. “I ought to be grateful for that.”
“Not too much so, however,” Madame Merle answered. She talked with her usual smile, leaning back in her chair and looking round the room. “You’ve made a very good impression, and I’ve seen for myself that you’ve received one. You’ve not come to Mrs. Touchett’s seven times to oblige me.”
“The girl’s not disagreeable,” Osmond quietly conceded.
Madame Merle dropped her eye on him a moment, during which her lips closed with a certain firmness. “Is that all you can find to say about that fine creature?”
“All? Isn’t it enough? Of how many people have you heard me say more?”
She made no answer to this, but still presented her talkative grace to the room. “You’re unfathomable,” she murmured at last. “I’m frightened at the abyss into which I shall have cast her.”