“As often as you would let me. You don’t always take it; then one has to let you alone. It’s not to do you a kindness, however, that I’ve come to-day; it’s quite another affair. I’ve come to get rid of a trouble of my own—to make it over to you. I’ve been talking to your husband about it.”
“I’m surprised at that; he doesn’t like troubles.”
“Especially other people’s; I know very well. But neither do you, I suppose. At any rate, whether you do or not, you must help me. It’s about poor Mr. Rosier.”
“Ah,” said Isabel reflectively, “it’s his trouble then, not yours.”
“He has succeeded in saddling me with it. He comes to see me ten times a week, to talk about Pansy.”
“Yes, he wants to marry her. I know all about it.”
Madame Merle hesitated. “I gathered from your husband that perhaps you didn’t.”
“How should he know what I know? He has never spoken to me of the matter.”
“It’s probably because he doesn’t know how to speak of it.”
“It’s nevertheless the sort of question in which he’s rarely at fault.”