and then Madame Merle, whose eyes had been wandering, asked if little Mr. Rosier had come this evening.
"He came nearly an hour ago—but he has disappeared," Osmond said.
"And where is Pansy?"
"In the other room. There are several people there."
"He is probably among them," said Madame Merle.
"Do you wish to see him?" Osmond asked, in a provokingly pointless tone. Madame Merle looked at him a moment; she knew his tones to the eighth of a note. "Yes, I should like to say to him that I have told you what he wants, and that it interests you but feebly."
"Don't tell him that, he will try to interest me more—which is exactly what I don't want. Tell him I hate his proposal."
"But you don't hate it."
"It doesn't signify: I don't love it. I let him see that, myself, this evening; I was rude to him on purpose. That sort of thing is a great bore. There is no hurry."
"I will tell him that you will take time and think it over."
"No, don't do that. He will hang on."
"If I discourage him he will do the same."
"Yes, but in the one case he will try and talk and explain; which would be exceedingly tiresome. In the other he will 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, enervating, with his eternal majolica."
Madame Merle dropped her eyes, with a faint smile. "He's a gentleman, he has a charming temper; and, after all, an income of forty thousand francs———"
