THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 363 her enthusiasm. Madame Merle, that afternoon, had applied the match to an accumulation of inflammable material. When Isabel was unhappy, she always looked about her partly from impulse and partly by theory for some form of exertion. She could never rid herself of the conviction that unhappiness was a Estate of disease ; it was suffering as opposed to action. To act, to do something it hardly mattered what would therefore be an escape, perhaps in some degree a remedy. Besides, she wished to convince herself that she had done everything possible to content her husband ; she was determined not to be haunted by images of a flat want of zeal. It would please him greatly to see Pansy married to an English nobleman, and justly please him, since this nobleman was such a fine fellow. It seemed to Isabel that if she could make it her duty to bring about such an event, she should play the part of a good wife. She wanted to be that ; she wanted to be able to believe, sincerely, that she had been that. Then, such an undertaking had other recom- mendations. It would occupy her, and she desired occupation. It would even amuse her, and if she could really amuse herself she perhaps might be saved. Lastly, it would be a service to Lord Warburton, who evidently pleased himself greatly with the young girl. It was a little odd that he should being what he was; but there was no accounting for such impressions. Pansy might captivate any one any one, at least, but Lord Warburton. Isabel would have thought her too small, too slight, perhaps even too artificial for that. There was always a little of the doll about her, and that was not what Lord War- burton had been looking for. Still, who could say what men looked for? They looked for what they found; they knew what pleased them only when they saw it. .No theory was valid in such matters, and nothing was more unaccountable or more natural than anything else. If he had cared for her it might seem odd that he cared for Pansy, who was so different ; but he had not cared for her so much as he supposed. Or if he had, he had completely got over it, and it was natural that as that affair had failed, he should think that something of quite another sort might succeed. Enthusiasm, as I say, had not come at first to Isabel, but it came to-day and made her feel almost happy. It was astonishing what happiness she could still find in the idea of procuring a pleasure for her husband. It was a pity, however, that Edward Rosier had crossed their path ! At this reflection the light that had suddenly gleamed upon that path lost something of its brightness. Isabel was unfortun- ately as sure that Pansy thought Mr. Rosier the nicest of all
