Osmond turned slightly pale; he gave a cold smile.
"That's why you must go then? Not to see your cousin, but to take a revenge on me."
"I know nothing about revenge."
"I do," said Osmond. "Don't give me an occasion."
"You are only too eager to take one. You wish immensely that I would commit some folly."
"I shall be gratified then if you disobey me."
"If I disobey you?" said Isabel, in a low tone, which had the effect of gentleness.
"Let it be clear. If you leave Rome to-day it will be a piece of the most deliberate, the most calculated, opposition."
"How can you call it calculated? I received my aunt's telegram but three minutes ago."
"You calculate rapidly; it's a great accomplishment. I don't see why we should prolong our discussion; you know my wish." And he stood there as if he expected to see her withdraw. But she never moved; she couldn't move, strange as it may seem; she still wished to justify herself; he had the power, in an extraordinary degree, of making her feel this need. There was something in her imagination that he could always appeal to against her judgment.
"You have no reason for such a wish," said Isabel, "and I have every reason for going. I can't tell you how unjust you seem to me. But I think you know. It is your own opposition that is calculated. It's malignant."
She had never uttered her worst thought to her husband before, and the sensation of hearing it was evidently new to Osmond. But he showed no surprise, and his coolness was apparently a proof that he had believed his wife would in fact
