ation. Like his appreciation of her dear little step-daughter, it was based partly on his fine sense of the plastic; but also on a relish for a more impalpable sort of merit—that merit of a bright spirit, which Rosier's devotion to brittle wares had not made him cease to regard as a quality. Mrs. Osmond, at present, might well have gratified such tastes. The years had touched her only to enrich her; the flower of her youth had not faded, it only hung more quietly on its stem. She had lost something of that quick eagerness to which her husband had privately taken exception—she had more the air of being able to wait. Now, at all events, framed in the gilded doorway, she struck our young man as the picture of a gracious lady.
"You see I am very regular," he said. "But who should be if I am not?"
"Yes, I have known you longer than any one here. But we must not indulge in tender reminiscences. I want to introduce you to a young lady."
"Ah, please, what young lady?" Rosier was immensely obliging; but this was not what he had come for.
"She sits there by the fire in pink, and has no one to speak to."
Rosier hesitated a moment.
"Can't Mr. Osmond speak to her? He is within six feet of her."
Mrs. Osmond also hesitated.
"She is not very lively, and he doesn't like dull people."
"But she is good enough for me? Ah now, that is hard."
"I only mean that you have ideas for two. And then you are so obliging."
"So is your husband."
"No, he is not—to me." And Mrs. Osmond smiled vaguely.
