The Portrait of a Lady, vol 2 | Page 4

"If she doesn't want you it's probable she doesn't want me."
"No, you're different. Go to the box and stay there while I walk about."
Lord Warburton went to the box, where Isabel's welcome was as to a
friend so honourably old that he vaguely asked himself what queer
temporal province she was annexing. He exchanged greetings with Mr.
Osmond, to whom he had been introduced the day before and who,
after he came in, sat blandly apart and silent, as if repudiating
competence in the subjects of allusion now probable. It struck her
second visitor that Miss Archer had, in operatic conditions, a radiance,
even a slight exaltation; as she was, however, at all times a
keenly-glancing, quickly-moving, completely animated young woman,
he may have been mistaken on this point. Her talk with him moreover
pointed to presence of mind; it expressed a kindness so ingenious and

deliberate as to indicate that she was in undisturbed possession of her
faculties. Poor Lord Warburton had moments of bewilderment. She had
discouraged him, formally, as much as a woman could; what business
had she then with such arts and such felicities, above all with such
tones of reparation--preparation? Her voice had tricks of sweetness, but
why play them on HIM? The others came back; the bare, familiar,
trivial opera began again. The box was large, and there was room for
him to remain if he would sit a little behind and in the dark. He did so
for half an hour, while Mr. Osmond remained in front, leaning forward,
his elbows on his knees, just behind Isabel. Lord Warburton heard
nothing, and from his gloomy corner saw nothing but the clear profile
of this young lady defined against the dim illumination of the house.
When there was another interval no one moved. Mr. Osmond talked to
Isabel, and Lord Warburton kept his corner. He did so but for a short
time, however; after which he got up and bade good-night to the ladies.
Isabel said nothing to detain him, but it didn't prevent his being puzzled
again. Why should she mark so one of his values--quite the wrong
one--when she would have nothing to do with another, which was quite
the right? He was angry with himself for being puzzled, and then angry
for being angry. Verdi's music did little to comfort him, and he left the
theatre and walked homeward, without knowing his way, through the
tortuous, tragic streets of Rome, where heavier sorrows than his had
been carried under the stars.
"What's the character of that gentleman?" Osmond asked of Isabel after
he had retired.
"Irreproachable--don't you see it?"
"He owns about half England; that's his character," Henrietta remarked.
"That's what they call a free country!"
"Ah, he's a great proprietor? Happy man!" said Gilbert Osmond.
"Do you call that happiness--the ownership of wretched human
beings?" cried Miss Stackpole. "He owns his tenants and has thousands
of them. It's pleasant to own something, but inanimate objects are
enough for me. I don't insist on flesh and blood and minds and

consciences."
"It seems to me you own a human being or two," Mr. Bantling
suggested jocosely. "I wonder if Warburton orders his tenants about as
you do me."
"Lord Warburton's a great radical," Isabel said. "He has very advanced
opinions."
"He has very advanced stone walls. His park's enclosed by a gigantic
iron fence, some thirty miles round," Henrietta announced for the
information of Mr. Osmond. "I should like him to converse with a few
of our Boston radicals."
"Don't they approve of iron fences?" asked Mr. Bantling.
"Only to shut up wicked conservatives. I always feel as if I were talking
to YOU over something with a neat top-finish of broken glass."
"Do you know him well, this unreformed reformer?" Osmond went on,
questioning Isabel.
"Well enough for all the use I have for him."
"And how much of a use is that?"
"Well, I like to like him."
"'Liking to like'--why, it makes a passion!" said Osmond.
"No"--she considered--"keep that for liking to DISlike."
"Do you wish to provoke me then," Osmond laughed, "to a passion for
HIM?"
She said nothing for a moment, but then met the light question with a
disproportionate gravity. "No, Mr. Osmond; I don't think I should ever
dare to provoke you. Lord Warburton, at any rate," she more easily
added, "is a very nice man."

"Of great ability?" her friend enquired.
"Of excellent ability, and as good as he looks."
"As good as he's good-looking do you mean? He's very good-looking.
How detestably fortunate!--to be a great English magnate, to be clever
and handsome into the bargain, and, by way of finishing off, to enjoy
your high favour! That's a man I could envy."
Isabel considered him with interest. "You seem to me to