“Yes, but in the one case he’ll try to talk and explain—which would be exceedingly tiresome. In the other he’ll probably hold his tongue and go in for some deeper game. That will leave me quiet. I hate talking with a donkey.”
“Is that what you call poor Mr. Rosier?”
“Oh, he’s a nuisance—with his eternal majolica.”
Madame Merle dropped her eyes; she had a faint smile. “He’s a gentleman, he has a charming temper; and, after all, an income of forty thousand francs!”
“It’s misery—‘genteel’ misery,” Osmond broke in. “It’s not what I’ve dreamed of for Pansy.”
“Very good then. He has promised me not to speak to her.”
“Do you believe him?” Osmond asked absentmindedly.
“Perfectly. Pansy has thought a great deal about him; but I don’t suppose you consider that that matters.”
“I don’t consider it matters at all; but neither do I believe she has thought of him.”
“That opinion’s more convenient,” said Madame Merle quietly.