“I’m always kind to people who have good Louis Quatorze. It’s very rare now, and there’s no telling what one may get by it.” With which the left-hand corner of Madame Merle’s mouth gave expression to the joke.
But he looked, in spite of it, literally apprehensive and consistently strenuous. “Ah, I thought you liked me for myself!”
“I like you very much; but, if you please, we won’t analyse. Pardon me if I seem patronising, but I think you a perfect little gentleman. I must tell you, however, that I’ve not the marrying of Pansy Osmond.”
“I didn’t suppose that. But you’ve seemed to me intimate with her family, and I thought you might have influence.”
Madame Merle considered. “Whom do you call her family?”
“Why, her father; and—how do you say it in English?—her belle-mere.”
“Mr. Osmond’s her father, certainly; but his wife can scarcely be termed a member of her family. Mrs. Osmond has nothing to do with marrying her.”
“I’m sorry for that,” said Rosier with an amiable sigh of good faith. “I think Mrs. Osmond would favour me.”
“Very likely—if her husband doesn’t.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Does she take the opposite line from him?”