“Has she told you she’s in love with him?”
“For what do you take her? And for what do you take me?” Madame Merle added in a moment.
Osmond had raised his foot and was resting his slim ankle on the other knee; he clasped his ankle in his hand familiarly—his long, fine forefinger and thumb could make a ring for it—and gazed a while before him. “This kind of thing doesn’t find me unprepared. It’s what I educated her for. It was all for this—that when such a case should come up she should do what I prefer.”
“I’m not afraid that she’ll not do it.”
“Well then, where’s the hitch?”
“I don’t see any. But, all the same, I recommend you not to get rid of Mr. Rosier. Keep him on hand; he may be useful.”
“I can’t keep him. Keep him yourself.”
“Very good; I’ll put him into a corner and allow him so much a day.” Madame Merle had, for the most part, while they talked, been glancing about her; it was her habit in this situation, just as it was her habit to interpose a good many blank-looking pauses. A long drop followed the last words I have quoted; and before it had ended she saw Pansy come out of the adjoining room, followed by Edward Rosier. The girl advanced a few steps and then stopped and stood looking at Madame Merle and at her father.
“He has spoken to her,” Madame Merle went on to Osmond.
Her companion never turned his head. “So much for your belief in his promises. He ought to be horsewhipped.”