164 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. some kind ; I often think that after forty one can't really feel. The freshness, the quickness have certainly gone. You will keep them longer than most people ; it will be a great satis- faction to me to see you some years hence. I want to see what life makes of you. One thing is certain it can't spoil you. It may pull you about horribly ; but I defy it to break you up." Isabel received this assurance as a young soldier, still panting from a slight skirmish in which he has come off with honour, might receive a pat on the shoulder from his colonel. Like such a recognition of merit, it seemed to come with authority. How could the lightest word do less, of a person who was prepared to say, of almost everything Isabel told her " Oh, I have been in that, my dear ; it passes, like everything else. " Upon many of her interlocutors, Madame Merle might have produced an irritat- ing effect ; it was so difficult to surprise her. But Isabel, though by no means incapable of desiring to be effective, had not at present this motive. She was too sincere, too interested in her judicious companion. And then, moreover, Madame Merle never said such things in the tone of triumph or of boastfulness ; they dropped from her like grave confessions. A period of bad weather had settled down upon Gardencourt ; the days grew shorter, and there was an end to the pretty tea- parties on the lawn. But Isabel had long in-door conversations with her fellow-visitor, and in spite of the rain the two ladies often sallied forth for a walk, equipped with the defensive apparatus which the English climate and the English genius have between them brought to such perfection. Madame Merle was very appreciative; she liked almost everything, including the English rain. " There is always a little of it, and never too much at once," she said ; " and it never wets you, and it always smells good." She declared that in England the pleasures of smell were great that in this inimitable island there was a certain mixture of fog and beer and soot which, however odd it might sound, was the national aroma, and was most agreeable to the nostril ; and she used to lift the sleeve of her British over- coat and bury her nose in it, to inhale the clear, fine odour of the wool. Poor Ralph Touchett, as soon as the autumn had begun to define itself, became almost a prisoner ; in bad weather he was unable to step out of the house, and he used sometimes to stand at one of the windows, with his hands in his pockets, and, with a countenance half rueful, half critical, watch Isabel and Madame Merle as they walked down the avenue under a pair of umbrellas. The roads about Gardencourt were so nrin,
