“You’ve not quite settled it, however; we shall see him again.” And he stopped in front of her, with his hands in his pockets, looking down at her thoughtfully, in his usual way, which seemed meant to let her know that she was not an object, but only a rather disagreeable incident, of thought.
“If you mean that Lord Warburton’s under an obligation to come back you’re wrong,” Isabel said. “He’s under none whatever.”
“That’s just what I complain of. But when I say he’ll come back I don’t mean he’ll come from a sense of duty.”
“There’s nothing else to make him. I think he has quite exhausted Rome.”
“Ah no, that’s a shallow judgement. Rome’s inexhaustible.” And Osmond began to walk about again. “However, about that perhaps there’s no hurry,” he added. “It’s rather a good idea of his that we should go to England. If it were not for the fear of finding your cousin there I think I should try to persuade you.”
“It may be that you’ll not find my cousin,” said Isabel.
“I should like to be sure of it. However, I shall be as sure as possible. At the same time I should like to see his house, that you told me so much about at one time: what do you call it?—Gardencourt. It must be a charming thing. And then, you know, I’ve a devotion to the memory of your uncle: you made me take a great fancy to him. I should like to see where he lived and died. That indeed is a detail. Your friend was right. Pansy ought to see England.”
“I’ve no doubt she would enjoy it,” said Isabel.
“But that’s a long time hence; next autumn’s far off,” Osmond continued; “and meantime there are things that more nearly interest us. Do you think me so very proud?” he suddenly asked.
“I think you very strange.”