instinct, of which it is not an exaggeration to say that it was allied to that of self-defence, had made it habitual. She wished as much as possible to know his thoughts, to know what he would say, beforehand, so that she might prepare her answer. Preparing answers had not been her strong point of old; she had rarely in this respect got further than thinking afterwards of clever things she might have said. But she had learned caution—learned it in a measure from her husband's very countenance. It was the same face she had looked into with eyes equally earnest perhaps, but less penetrating, on the terrace of a Florentine villa; except that Osmond had grown a little stouter since his marriage. He still, however, looked very distinguished.
"Has Lord Warburton been here?" he presently asked.
"Yes, he stayed for half-an-hour."
"Did he see Pansy?"
"Yes; he sat on the sofa beside her."
"Did he talk with her much?"
"He talked almost only to her."
"It seems to me he's attentive. Isn't that what you call it?"
"I don't call it anything," said Isabel; "I have waited for you to give it a name."
"That's a consideration you don't always show," Osmond answered, after a moment.
"I have determined, this time, to try and act as you would like. I have so often failed in that."
Osmond turned his head, slowly, looking at her.
"Are you trying to quarrel with me?"
"No, I am trying to live at peace."
"Nothing is more easy; you know I don't quarrel myself."
"What do you call it when you try to make me angry?" Isabel asked.
