“He must have been false to his wife—and so very soon!” said Isabel with a sudden check.
“That’s all that’s wanting—that you should take up her cause!” the Countess went on. “I quite agree with you, however, that it was much too soon.”
“But to me, to me—?” And Isabel hesitated as if she had not heard; as if her question—though it was sufficiently there in her eyes—were all for herself.
“To you he has been faithful? Well, it depends, my dear, on what you call faithful. When he married you he was no longer the lover of another woman—such a lover as he had been, cara mia, between their risks and their precautions, while the thing lasted! That state of affairs had passed away; the lady had repented, or at all events, for reasons of her own, drawn back: she had always had, too, a worship of appearances so intense that even Osmond himself had got bored with it. You may therefore imagine what it was—when he couldn’t patch it on conveniently to any of those he goes in for! But the whole past was between them.”
“Yes,” Isabel mechanically echoed, “the whole past is between them.”
“Ah, this later past is nothing. But for six or seven years, as I say, they had kept it up.”
She was silent a little. “Why then did she want him to marry me?”
“Ah my dear, that’s her superiority! Because you had money; and because she believed you would be good to Pansy.”
“Poor woman—and Pansy who doesn’t like her!” cried Isabel.
“That’s the reason she wanted some one whom Pansy would like. She knows it; she knows everything.”