THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 149 her arrival was not noticed by the person seated before the instrument. This person was neither Balph nor his mother ; it was a lady whom Isabel immediately saw to be a stranger to herself, although her back was presented to the door. This back an ample and well-dressed one Isabel contemplated for some moments in surprise. The lady was of course a visitor who had arrived during her absence, and who had not been mentioned by either of the servants one of them her aunt's maid of whom she had had speech since her return. Isabel had already learned, however, that the British domestic is not effusive, and she was particularly conscious of having been treated with dryness by her aunt's maid, whose offered assistance the young lady from Albany versed, as young ladies are in Albany, in the very metaphysics of the toilet had perhaps made too light of. The arrival of a visitor was far from dis- agreeable to Isabel; she had not yet divested herself of a youthful impression that each new acquaintance would exert some momentous influence upon her life. By the time she had made these reflections she became aware that the lady at the piano played remarkably well. She was playing something of Beethoven's Isabel knew not what, but she recognised Beethoven and she touched the piano softly and discreetly, but with evident skill. Her touch was that of an artist ; Isabel sat down noiselessly on the nearest chair and waited till the end of the piece. When it was finished she felt a strong desire to thank the player, and rose from her seat to do so, while at the same time the lady at the piano turned quickly round, as if she had become aware of her presence. "That is very beautiful, and your playing makes it moro beautiful still," said Isabel, with all the young radiance with which she usually uttered a truthful rapture. "You don't think I disturbed Mr. Touchett, then?" the musician answered, as sweetly as this compliment deserved. " The house is so large, and his room so far away, that I thought I might venture especially as I played just just du bout des " She is a Frenchwoman," Isabel said to herself ; " she says that as if she were French." And this supposition made the stranger more interesting to our speculative heroine. " I hope my uncle is doing well," Isabel added. " I should think that to hear such lovely music as that would really make him feel better." The lady gave a discriminating smile. " I am afraid there are moments in life when even Beethoven
