THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 365 attentive eyes, and when she lowered them she gave little quiet oblique glances at his person, his hands, his feet, his clothes, as if she were considering him. Even his person, Isabel might have reminded her, was better than Mr. Hosier's. But Isabel contented herself at such moments with wondering where this gentleman was ; he came no more at all to the Piazza Roccanera. It was surprising, as I say, the hold it had taken of her the idea of assisting her husband to be pleased. It was surprising for a variety of reasons, which I shall pre- sently touch upon. On the evening I speak of, while Lord Warburton sat there, she had been on the point of taking the great step of going out of the room and leaving her companions alone. I say the great step, because it was in this light that Gilbert Osmond would have regarded it, and Isabel was trying as much as possible to take her husband's view. She succeeded after a fashion, but she did not succeed in coming to the point I mention. After all, she couldn't ; something held her and made it impossible. It was not exactly that it would be base, insidi- ous ; for women as a general thing practise such manoeuvres with a perfectly good conscience, and Isabel had all the qualities of her sex. It was a vague doubt that interposed a sense that she was not quite sure. So she remained in the drawing-room, and after a while Lord Warburton went off to his party, of which he promised to give Pansy a full account on the morrow. After he had gone, Isabel asked herself whether she had pre- vented something which would have happened if she had absented herself for a quarter of an hour ; and then she exclaimed always mentally that when Lord Warburton wished her to go away he would easily find means to let her know it. Pansy said nothing whatever about him after he had gone, and Isabel said nothing, as she had taken a vow of reserve until after he should have declared himself. He was a little longer in coming to this than might seem to accord with the description he had given Isabel of his feelings. Pansy went to bed, and Isabel had to admit that she could not now guess what her step-daughter was thinking of. Her transparent little companion was for the moment rather opaque. Isabel remained alone, looking at the fire, until, at the end of half-an-hour, her husband came in. He moved about a while in silence, and then sat down, looking at the fire like herself. But Isabel now had transferred her eyes from the flickering flame in the chimney to Osmond's face, and she watched him while he sat silent. Covert observation had become a habit with her ; an instinct, of which it is not an exaggeration to say that it was
