"That was a natural supposition; but I'm afraid it's not the first time I've acted in defiance of your calculations."
"Yes," said Madame Merle, "I think you very perverse."
Mr. Osmond busied himself for a moment in the room — there was plenty of space in it to move about — in the fashion of a man mechanically seeking pretexts for not giving an attention which may be embarrassing. Presently, however, he had exhausted his pretexts; there was nothing left for him — unless he took up a book — but to stand with his hands behind him looking at Pansy. "Why didn't you come and see the last of mamman Catherine?" he asked of her abruptly in French.
Pansy hesitated a moment, glancing at Madame Merle. "I asked her to stay with me," said this lady, who had seated herself again in another place.
"Ah, that was better," Osmond conceded. With which he dropped into a chair and sat looking at Madame Merle; bent forward a little, his elbows on the edge of the arms and his hands interlocked.
"She's going to give me some gloves," said Pansy.
"You needn't tell that to every one, my dear," Madame Merle observed.
"You're very kind to her," said Osmond. "She's supposed to have everything she needs."
"I should think she had had enough of the nuns."
"If we're going to discuss that matter she had better go out of the room."
"Let her stay," said Madame Merle. "We'll talk of something else."
"If you like I won't listen," Pansy suggested with an appearance of candour which imposed conviction.
"You may listen, charming child, because you won't understand," her father replied. The child sat down, deferentially, near the open door, within sight of the garden, into which she directed her innocent, wistful eyes; and Mr. Osmond went on irrelevantly, addressing himself to his other companion. "You're looking particularly well."
"I think I always look the same," said Madame Merle.
"You always ARE the same. You don't vary. You're a wonderful woman."
"Yes, I think I am."
"You sometimes change your mind, however. You told me on your return from England that you wouldn't leave Rome again for the present."
"I'm pleased that you remember so well what I say. That was my intention. But I've come to Florence to meet some friends who have lately arrived and as to whose movements I was at that time uncertain."
"That reason's characteristic. You're always doing something for your friends."
Madame Merle smiled straight at her host. "It's less characteristic than your comment upon it which is perfectly insincere. I don't, however, make a crime of that," she added, "because if you don't believe what you say there's no reason why you should. I don't ruin myself for my friends; I don't deserve your praise. I care greatly for myself."
"Exactly; but yourself includes so many other selves — so much of every one else and of everything. I never knew a person whose life touched so many other lives."
"What do you call one's life?" asked Madame Merle. "One's appearance, one's movements, one's engagements, one's society?"
"I call YOUR life your ambitions," said Osmond.
Madame Merle looked a moment at Pansy. "I wonder if she understands that," she murmured.
"You see she can't stay with us!" And Pansy's father gave rather a joyless smile. "Go into the garden, mignonne, and pluck a flower or two for Madame Merle," he went on in French.
"That's just what I wanted to do," Pansy exclaimed, rising with promptness and noiselessly departing. Her father followed her to the open door, stood a moment watching her, and then came back, but remained standing, or rather strolling to and fro, as if to cultivate a sense of freedom which in another attitude might be wanting.
"My ambitions are principally for you," said Madame Merle, looking up at him with a certain courage.
"That comes back to what I say. I'm part of your life — I and a thousand others. You're not selfish — I can't admit that. If you were selfish, what should I be? What epithet would properly describe me?"
"You're indolent. For me that's your worst fault."
"I'm afraid it's really my best."
"You don't care," said Madame Merle gravely.
"No; I don't think I care much. What sort of a fault do you call that? My indolence, at any rate, was one of the reasons I didn't go to Rome. But it was only one of them."
"It's not of importance — to me at least — that you didn't go; though I should have been glad to see you. I'm glad you're not in Rome now — which you might be, would probably be, if you had gone there a month ago. There's something I should like you to do at present in Florence."
"Please remember my indolence," said Osmond.
"I do remember it; but I beg you to forget it. In that way you'll have both the virtue and the reward. This is not a great labour, and it may prove a real interest. How long is it since you made a new acquaintance?"