"She ought to be all the easier for Mr. Rosier to love. Mr. Rosier is not unlimited."
"No," said Isabel, "he has about the extent of one's pocket-handkerchief—the small ones, with lace." Her humour had lately turned a good deal to sarcasm, but in a moment she was ashamed of exercising it on so innocent an object as Pansy's suitor, "He is very kind, very honest," she presently added; "and he is not such a fool as he seems."
"He assures me that she delights in him," said Madame Merle.
"I don't know; I have not asked her."
"You have never sounded her a little?"
"It's not my place; it's her father's."
"Ah, you are too literal!" said Madame Merle.
"I must judge for myself."
Madame Merle gave her smile again. "It isn't easy to help you."
"To help me?" said Isabel, very seriously. "What do you mean?"
"It's easy to displease you. Don't you see how wise I am to be careful? I notify you, at any rate, as I notified Osmond, that I wash my hands of the love-affairs of Miss Pansy and Mr. Edward Rosier. Je n'y peux rien, moi! I can't talk to Pansy about him. Especially," added Madame Merle, "as I don't think him a paragon of husbands."
Isabel reflected a little; after which, with a smile "You don't wash your hands, then!" she said. Then she added, in another tone—"You can't—you are too much interested."
Madame Merle slowly rose; she had given Isabel a look as rapid as the intimation that had gleamed before our heroine a few moments before. Only, this time Isabel saw nothing. "Ask him the next time, and you will see."
