“I didn’t mean to laugh,” said Isabel. “I laugh very seldom. Now you had better go away.”
“I feel very safe!” Rosier declared without moving. This might be; but it evidently made him feel more so to make the announcement in rather a loud voice, balancing himself a little complacently on his toes and looking all round the Coliseum as if it were filled with an audience. Suddenly Isabel saw him change colour; there was more of an audience than he had suspected. She turned and perceived that her two companions had returned from their excursion. “You must really go away,” she said quickly. “Ah, my dear lady, pity me!” Edward Rosier murmured in a voice strangely at variance with the announcement I have just quoted. And then he added eagerly, like a man who in the midst of his misery is seized by a happy thought: “Is that lady the Countess Gemini? I’ve a great desire to be presented to her.”
Isabel looked at him a moment. “She has no influence with her brother.”
“Ah, what a monster you make him out!” And Rosier faced the Countess, who advanced, in front of Pansy, with an animation partly due perhaps to the fact that she perceived her sister-in-law to be engaged in conversation with a very pretty young man.
“I’m glad you’ve kept your enamels!” Isabel called as she left him. She went straight to Pansy, who, on seeing Edward Rosier, had stopped short, with lowered eyes. “We’ll go back to the carriage,” she said gently.
“Yes, it’s getting late,” Pansy returned more gently still. And she went on without a murmur, without faltering or glancing back. Isabel, however, allowing herself this last liberty, saw that a meeting had immediately taken place between the Countess and Mr. Rosier. He had removed his hat and was bowing and smiling; he had evidently introduced himself, while the Countess’s expressive back displayed to Isabel’s eye a gracious inclination. These facts, none the less, were presently lost to sight, for Isabel and Pansy took their places again in the carriage. Pansy, who faced her stepmother, at first kept her eyes fixed on her lap; then she raised them and rested them on Isabel’s. There shone out of each of them a little melancholy ray—a spark of timid passion which touched Isabel to the heart. At the same time a wave of envy passed over her soul, as she compared the tremulous longing, the definite ideal of the child with her own dry despair. “Poor little Pansy!” she affectionately said.
“Oh never mind!” Pansy answered in the tone of eager apology. And then there was a silence; the Countess was a long time coming. “Did you show your aunt everything, and did she enjoy it?” Isabel asked at last.
“Yes, I showed her everything. I think she was very much pleased.”
“And you’re not tired, I hope.”
“Oh no, thank you, I’m not tired.”