352 THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. , being like that of having made one's self a firm surface, a sort of corselet of silver. But, as I say, it was not till the winter, during which we lately renewed acquaintance with our heroine, that Madame Merle made a continuous stay in Rome. Isabel now saw more of her than she had done since her marriage ; but by this time Isabel's needs and inclinations had considerably changed. It was not at present to Madame Merle that she would have applied for instruction ; she had lost the desire to know this lady's clever trick. If she had troubles she must keep them to herself, and if life wasMifficult it would not make it easier to confess herself beaten. Madame Merle was doubtless of great use to herself, and an ornament to any circle ; but was she would she be of use to others in periods of refined embarrass- ment 1 The best way to profit by Madame Merle this indeed Isabel had always thought was to imitate her ; to be as firm and bright as she. She recognised no embarrassments, and Isabel, considering this fact, determined, for the fiftieth time, to brush aside her own. It seemed to her, too, on the renewal of an intercourse which had virtually been interrupted, that Madame Merle was changed that she pushed to the extreme a certain rather artificial fear of being indiscreet. Ealph Touchett, we know, had been of the opinion that she was prone to exaggera- tion, to forcing the note was apt, in the vulgar phrase, to over- do it. Isabel had never admitted this charge had never, indeed, quite understood it ; Madame Merle's conduct, to her perception, always bore the stamp of good taste, was always " quiet." But in this matter of not wishing to intrude upon the inner life of the Osmond family, it at last occurred to our heroine that she overdid it a little. That, of course, was not the best taste ; that was rather violent. She remembered too much that Isabel was married ; that she had now other interests ; that though she, Madame Merle, had known Gilbert Osmond and his little Pansy very well, better almost than any one, she was after all not one of them. She was on her guard; she never spoke of their affairs till she was asked, even pressed as when her opinion was wanted ; she had a dread of seeming to meddle. Madame Merle was as candid as we know, and one day she candidly expressed this dread to Isabel. " I must be on my guard," she said ; " I might so easily, with- out suspecting it, offend you. You would be right to be offended, even if my intention should have been of the purest. I must not forget that I knew your husband long before you did ; I must not let that betray me. If you were a silly woman you might be jealous. You are not a silly woman ; 1 know that
