THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 265 XXIX. EALPH TOUCHETT, for reasons best known to himself, had seen fit to say that Gilbert Osmond was not a good fellow ; but this assertion was not borne out by the gentleman's conduct during the rest of the visit to Rome. He spent a portion of each day with Isabel and her companions, and gave every indication of being an easy man to live with. It was impossible not to feel that he had excellent points, and indeed this is per- haps why Ealph Touchett made his want of good fellowship a reproach to him. Even Ralph was obliged to admit that just now he was a delightful companion. His good humour was imperturbable, his knowledge universal, his manners were the gentlest in the world. His spirits were not visibly high ; it was difficult to think of Gilbert Osmond as boisterous ; he had a mortal dislike to loudness or eagerness. He thought Miss Archer sometimes too eager, too pronounced. It was a pity she had that fault ; because if she had not had it she would really have had none ; she would have been as bright and soft as an April cloud. If Osmond was not loud, however, he was deep, and during these closing days of the Roman May he had a gaiety that matched with slow irregular walks under the pines of the Villa Borghese, among the small sweet meadow-flowers and the mossy marbles. He was pleased with everything ; he had never before been pleased with so many things at once. Old impressions, old enjoyments, renewed themselves ; one evening, going home to his room at the inn, he wrote down a little sonnet to which he prefixed the title of " Rome Revisited." A day or two later he showed this piece of correct and ingenious verse to Isabel, explaining to her that it was an Italian fashion to commemorate the pleasant occasion^ of life by a tribute to the muse. In general Osmond took his pleasures singly; he was usually disgusted with something that seemed to him ugly or offensive; his mind was rarely visited with moods of com- prehensive satisfaction. But at present he was happy happier than he had perhaps ever been in his life ; and the feeling had a large foundation. This was simply the sense of success the most agreeable emotion of the human heart. Osmond had never had too much of it ; in this respect he had never been spoiled ; as he knew perfectly well and often reminded himself. "Ah no, I have not been spoiled; certainly I have not been spoiled," he used to repeat to himself. "If I do succeed before I die, I
