"I remember the last time best," said Pansy, "because you told me I should come away."
"Did you tell her that?" the child's father asked.
"I hardly remember. I told her what I thought would please her. I've been in Florence a week. I hoped you would come to see me."
"I should have done so if I had known you were there. One doesn't know such things by inspiration — though I suppose one ought. You had better sit down."
These two speeches were made in a particular tone of voice — a tone half-lowered and carefully quiet, but as from habit rather than from any definite need. Madame Merle looked about her, choosing her seat. "You're going to the door with these women? Let me of course not interrupt the ceremony. Je vous salue, mesdames," she added, in French, to the nuns, as if to dismiss them.
"This lady's a great friend of ours; you will have seen her at the convent," said their entertainer. "We've much faith in her judgement, and she'll help me to decide whether my daughter shall return to you at the end of the holidays."
"I hope you'll decide in our favour, madame," the sister in spectacles ventured to remark.
"That's Mr. Osmond's pleasantry; I decide nothing," said Madame Merle, but also as in pleasantry. "I believe you've a very good school, but Miss Osmond's friends must remember that she's very naturally meant for the world."
"That's what I've told monsieur," sister Catherine answered. "It's precisely to fit her for the world," she murmured, glancing at Pansy, who stood, at a little distance, attentive to Madame Merle's elegant apparel.
"Do you hear that, Pansy? You're very naturally meant for the world," said Pansy's father.
The child fixed him an instant with her pure young eyes. "Am I not meant for you, papa?"
Papa gave a quick, light laugh. "That doesn't prevent it! I'm of the world, Pansy."
"Kindly permit us to retire," said sister Catherine. "Be good and wise and happy in any case, my daughter."
"I shall certainly come back and see you," Pansy returned, recommencing her embraces, which were presently interrupted by Madame Merle.
"Stay with me, dear child," she said, "while your father takes the good ladies to the door."
Pansy stared, disappointed, yet not protesting. She was evidently impregnated with the idea of submission, which was due to any one who took the tone of authority; and she was a passive spectator of the operation of her fate. "May I not see mamman Catherine get into the carriage?" she nevertheless asked very gently.
"It would please me better if you'd remain with me," said Madame Merle, while Mr. Osmond and his companions, who had bowed low again to the other visitor, passed into the ante-chamber.
"Oh yes, I'll stay," Pansy answered; and she stood near Madame Merle, surrendering her little hand, which this lady took. She stared out of the window; her eyes had filled with tears.
"I'm glad they've taught you to obey," said Madame Merle. "That's what good little girls should do."
"Oh yes, I obey very well," cried Pansy with soft eagerness, almost with boastfulness, as if she had been speaking of her piano-playing. And then she gave a faint, just audible sigh.
Madame Merle, holding her hand, drew it across her own fine palm and looked at it. The gaze was critical, but it found nothing to deprecate; the child's small hand was delicate and fair. "I hope they always see that you wear gloves," she said in a moment. "Little girls usually dislike them."
"I used to dislike them, but I like them now," the child made answer.
"Very good, I'll make you a present of a dozen."
"I thank you very much. What colours will they be?" Pansy demanded with interest.
Madame Merle meditated. "Useful colours."
"But very pretty?"
"Are you very fond of pretty things?"
"Yes; but — but not too fond," said Pansy with a trace of asceticism.
"Well, they won't be too pretty," Madame Merle returned with a laugh. She took the child's other hand and drew her nearer; after which, looking at her a moment, "Shall you miss mother Catherine?" she went on.
"Yes — when I think of her."
"Try then not to think of her. Perhaps some day," added Madame Merle, "you'll have another mother."
"I don't think that's necessary," Pansy said, repeating her little soft conciliatory sigh. "I had more than thirty mothers at the convent."
Her father's step sounded again in the antechamber, and Madame Merle got up, releasing the child. Mr. Osmond came in and closed the door; then, without looking at Madame Merle, he pushed one or two chairs back into their places. His visitor waited a moment for him to speak, watching him as he moved about. Then at last she said: "I hoped you'd have come to Rome. I thought it possible you'd have wished yourself to fetch Pansy away."