"Brought him with you?" Isabel's surprise was great.
"He is at the hotel; he was too tired to come out, and has gone to bed."
"I will go and see him," said Isabel, quickly.
"That is exactly what I hoped you would do. I had an idea that you hadn't seen much of him since your marriage—that in fact your relations were a—a little more formal. That's why I hesitated—like an awkward Englishman."
"I am as fond of Ralph as ever," Isabel answered. "But why has he come to Rome?"
The declaration was very gentle; the question a little sharp.
"Because he is very far gone, Mrs. Osmond."
"Rome, then, is no place for him. I heard from him that he had determined to give up his custom of wintering abroad, and remain in England, indoors, in what he called an artificial climate."
"Poor fellow, he doesn't succeed with the artificial! I went to see him three weeks ago, at Gardencourt, and found him extremely ill. He has been getting worse every year, and now he has no strength left. He smokes no more cigarettes! He had got up an artificial climate indeed; the house was as hot as Calcutta. Nevertheless, he had suddenly taken it into his head to start for Sicily. I didn't believe in it—neither did the doctors, nor any of his friends. His mother, as I suppose you know, is in America, so there was no one to prevent him. He stuck to his idea that it would be the saving of him to spend the winter at Catania. He said he could take servants and furniture, and make himself comfortable; but in point of fact he hasn't brought anything. I wanted him at least to go by sea, to save fatigue; but he said he hated the sea, and wished to stop at Rome. After that, though I thought it all rubbish, I made
