THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 425 had come to her with his unhappiness when her own bliss was so perfect ; he had done his best to darken the brightness of these pure rays. He had not been violent, and yet there was a violence in that. There was a violence at any rate in something, somewhere ; perhaps it was only in her own fit of weeping and that after-sense of it which lasted for three or four days. The effect of Caspar Goodwood's visit faded away, and during the first year of Isabel's marriage he dropped out of her books. He was a thankless subject of reference ; it was disagreeable to have to think of a person who was unhappy on your account and whom you could do nothing to relieve. It would have been different if she had been able to doubt, even a little, of his unhappiness, as she doubted of Lord Warburton's ; unfortunately it was beyond question, and this aggressive, uncompromising look of it was just what made it unattractive. She could never say to herself that Caspar Goodwood had great compensations, as she was able to say in the case of her English suitor. She had no faith in his compensations, and no esteem for them. A cotton-factory was not a compensation for anything least of all for having failed to marry Isabel Archer. And yet, beyond that, she hardly knew what he had save of course his intrinsic qualities. Oh, he was intrinsic enough ; she never thought of his even looking for artificial aids. If he extended his business that, to the best of her belief, was the only form exertion could take with him it would be because it was an enterprising thing, or good for the business ; not in the least because he might hope it would overlay the past. This gave his figure a kind of bareness and bleakness which made the accident of meeting it in one's meditations always a sort of shock ; it was deficient in the social drapery which muffles the sharpness of human contact. His perfect silence, moreover, the fact that she never heard from him and very seldom heard any mention of him, deepened this impression of his loneliness. She asked Lily for news of him, from time to time ; but Lily knew nothing about Boston ; her imagination was confined within the limits of Manhattan. As time went on Isabel thought of him oftener, and with fewer restrictions ; she had more than once the idea of writing to him. She had never told her husband about him never let Osmond know of his visits to her in Florence ; a reserve not dictated in the early period by a want of confidence in Osmond, but simply by the consideration that Caspar Good- wood's disappointment was not her secret but his own. It would .be wrong of her, she believed, to convey it to another, and Mr. Goodwood's affairs could have, -after all, but little interest fot
