The Countess Gemini was often extremely bored--bored, in her own
phrase, to extinction. She had not been extinguished, however,
and she struggled bravely enough with her destiny, which had been
to marry an unaccommodating Florentine who insisted upon living
in his native town, where he enjoyed such consideration as might
attach to a gentleman whose talent for losing at cards had not
the merit of being incidental to an obliging disposition. The
Count Gemini was not liked even by those who won from him; and he
bore a name which, having a measurable value in Florence, was,
like the local coin of the old Italian states, without currency
in other parts of the peninsula. In Rome he was simply a very
dull Florentine, and it is not remarkable that he should not have
cared to pay frequent visits to a place where, to carry it off,
his dulness needed more explanation than was convenient. The
Countess lived with her eyes upon Rome, and it was the constant
grievance of her life that she had not an habitation there. She
was ashamed to say how seldom she had been allowed to visit that
city; it scarcely made the matter better that there were other
members of the Florentine nobility who never had been there at
all. She went whenever she could; that was all she could say. Or
rather not all, but all she said she could say. In fact she had
much more to say about it, and had often set forth the reasons
why she hated Florence and wished to end her days in the shadow
of Saint Peter's. They are reasons, however, that do not closely
concern us, and were usually summed up in the declaration that
Rome, in short, was the Eternal City and that Florence was simply
a pretty little place like any other. The Countess apparently
needed to connect the idea of eternity with her amusements. She
was convinced that society was infinitely more interesting in
Rome, where you met celebrities all winter at evening parties. At
Florence there were no celebrities; none at least that one had
heard of. Since her brother's marriage her impatience had greatly
increased; she was so sure his wife had a more brilliant life
than herself. She was not so intellectual as Isabel, but she was
intellectual enough to do justice to Rome--not to the ruins and
the catacombs, not even perhaps to the monuments and museums, the
church ceremonies and the scenery; but certainly to all the rest.
She heard a great deal about her sister-in-law and knew perfectly
that Isabel was having a beautiful time. She had indeed seen it
for herself on the only occasion on which she had enjoyed the
hospitality of Palazzo Roccanera. She had spent a week there
during the first winter of her brother's marriage, but she had
not been encouraged to renew this satisfaction. Osmond didn't
want her--that she was perfectly aware of; but she would have
gone all the same, for after all she didn't care two straws about
Osmond. It was her husband who wouldn't let her, and the money
question was always a trouble. Isabel had been very nice; the
Countess, who had liked her sister-in-law from the first, had not
been blinded by envy to Isabel's personal merits. She had always
observed that she got on better with clever women than with silly
ones like herself; the silly ones could never understand her
wisdom, whereas the clever ones--the really clever ones--always
understood her silliness. It appeared to her that, different as
they were in appearance and general style, Isabel and she had
somewhere a patch of common ground that they would set their feet
upon at last. It was not very large, but it was firm, and they
should both know it when once they had really touched it. And
then she lived, with Mrs. Osmond, under the influence of a
pleasant surprise; she was constantly expecting that Isabel would
"look down" on her, and she as constantly saw this operation
postponed. She asked herself when it would begin, like
fire-works, or Lent, or the opera season; not that she cared
much, but she wondered what kept it in abeyance. Her
sister-in-law regarded her with none but level glances and
expressed for the poor Countess as little contempt as admiration.
In reality Isabel would as soon have thought of despising her as
of passing a moral judgement on a grasshopper. She was not
indifferent to her husband's sister, however; she was rather a
little afraid of her. She wondered at her; she thought her very
extraordinary. The Countess seemed to her to have no soul; she
was like a bright rare shell, with a polished surface and a
remarkably pink lip, in which something would rattle when you
shook it. This rattle was apparently the Countess's spiritual
principle, a little loose nut that tumbled about inside of her.
She was too odd for disdain, too anomalous for comparisons.
Isabel would have invited her again (there was no question of
inviting the Count); but Osmond, after his marriage, had not
scrupled to say frankly that Amy was a fool of the worst species
--a fool whose folly had the irrepressibility of genius. He said
at another time that she had no heart; and he added in a moment
that she had given it all away--in small pieces, like a frosted
wedding-cake. The fact of not having been asked was of course
another obstacle to the Countess's going again to Rome; but at
the period with which this history has now to deal she was in
receipt of an invitation to spend several weeks at Palazzo
Roccanera. The proposal had come from Osmond himself, who wrote
to his sister that she must be prepared to be very quiet. Whether
or no she found in this phrase all the meaning he had put into it
I am unable to say; but she accepted the invitation on any terms.
She was curious, moreover; for one of the impressions of her
former visit had been that her brother had found his match.
Before the marriage she had been sorry for Isabel, so sorry as to
have had serious thoughts--if any of the Countess's thoughts were
serious--of putting her on her guard. But she had let that pass,
and after a little she was reassured. Osmond was as lofty as
ever, but his wife would not be an easy victim. The Countess was
not very exact at measurements, but it seemed to her that if
Isabel should draw herself up she would be the taller spirit of
the two. What she wanted to learn now was whether Isabel had
drawn herself up; it would give her immense pleasure to see
Several days before she was to start for Rome a servant brought
her the card of a visitor--a card with the simple superscription
"Henrietta C. Stackpole." The Countess pressed her finger-tips to
her forehead; she didn't remember to have known any such
Henrietta as that. The servant then remarked that the lady had
requested him to say that if the Countess should not recognise
her name she would know her well enough on seeing her. By the
time she appeared before her visitor she had in fact reminded
herself that there was once a literary lady at Mrs. Touchett's;
the only woman of letters she had ever encountered--that is the
only modern one, since she was the daughter of a defunct poetess.
She recognised Miss Stackpole immediately, the more so that Miss
Stackpole seemed perfectly unchanged; and the Countess, who was
thoroughly good-natured, thought it rather fine to be called on
by a person of that sort of distinction. She wondered if Miss
Stackpole had come on account of her mother--whether she had
heard of the American Corinne. Her mother was not at all like
Isabel's friend; the Countess could see at a glance that this
lady was much more contemporary; and she received an impression
of the improvements that were taking place--chiefly in distant
countries--in the character (the professional character) of
literary ladies. Her mother had been used to wear a Roman scarf
thrown over a pair of shoulders timorously bared of their tight
black velvet (oh the old clothes!) and a gold laurel-wreath set
upon a multitude of glossy ringlets. She had spoken softly and
vaguely, with the accent of her "Creole" ancestors, as she always
confessed; she sighed a great deal and was not at all
enterprising. But Henrietta, the Countess could see, was always
closely buttoned and compactly braided; there was something brisk
and business-like in her appearance; her manner was almost
conscientiously familiar. It was as impossible to imagine her
ever vaguely sighing as to imagine a letter posted without its
address. The Countess could not but feel that the correspondent
of the Interviewer was much more in the movement than the
American Corinne. She explained that she had called on the
Countess because she was the only person she knew in Florence,
and that when she visited a foreign city she liked to see
something more than superficial travellers. She knew Mrs.
Touchett, but Mrs. Touchett was in America, and even if she had
been in Florence Henrietta would not have put herself out for
her, since Mrs. Touchett was not one of her admirations.
"Do you mean by that that I am?" the Countess graciously asked.
"Well, I like you better than I do her," said Miss Stackpole. "I
seem to remember that when I saw you before you were very
interesting. I don't know whether it was an accident or whether
it's your usual style. At any rate I was a good deal struck with
what you said. I made use of it afterwards in print."
"Dear me!" cried the Countess, staring and half-alarmed; "I had
no idea I ever said anything remarkable! I wish I had known it at
"It was about the position of woman in this city," Miss Stackpole
remarked. "You threw a good deal of light upon it."
"The position of woman's very uncomfortable. Is that what you
mean? And you wrote it down and published it?" the Countess went
on. "Ah, do let me see it!"
"I'll write to them to send you the paper if you like," Henrietta
said. "I didn't mention your name; I only said a lady of high
rank. And then I quoted your views."
The Countess threw herself hastily backward, tossing up her
clasped hands. "Do you know I'm rather sorry you didn't mention
my name? I should have rather liked to see my name in the papers.
I forget what my views were; I have so many! But I'm not ashamed
of them. I'm not at all like my brother--I suppose you know my
brother? He thinks it a kind of scandal to be put in the papers;
if you were to quote him he'd never forgive you."
"He needn't be afraid; I shall never refer to him," said Miss
Stackpole with bland dryness. "That's another reason," she added,
"why I wanted to come to see you. You know Mr. Osmond married my
"Ah, yes; you were a friend of Isabel's. I was trying to think
what I knew about you."
"I'm quite willing to be known by that," Henrietta declared. "But
that isn't what your brother likes to know me by. He has tried to
break up my relations with Isabel."
"Don't permit it," said the Countess.
"That's what I want to talk about. I'm going to Rome."
"So am I!" the Countess cried. "We'll go together."
"With great pleasure. And when I write about my journey I'll
mention you by name as my companion."
The Countess sprang from her chair and came and sat on the sofa
beside her visitor. "Ah, you must send me the paper! My husband
won't like it, but he need never see it. Besides, he doesn't know
how to read."
Henrietta's large eyes became immense. "Doesn't know how to read?
May I put that into my letter?"
"Into your letter?"
"In the Interviewer. That's my paper."
"Oh yes, if you like; with his name. Are you going to stay with
Henrietta held up her head, gazing a little in silence at her
hostess. "She has not asked me. I wrote to her I was coming, and
she answered that she would engage a room for me at a pension.
She gave no reason."
The Countess listened with extreme interest. "The reason's Osmond,"
she pregnantly remarked.
"Isabel ought to make a stand," said Miss Stackpole. "I'm afraid
she has changed a great deal. I told her she would."
"I'm sorry to hear it; I hoped she would have her own way. Why
doesn't my brother like you?" the Countess ingenuously added.
"I don't know and I don't care. He's perfectly welcome not to
like me; I don't want every one to like me; I should think less
of myself if some people did. A journalist can't hope to do much
good unless he gets a good deal hated; that's the way he knows
how his work goes on. And it's just the same for a lady. But I
didn't expect it of Isabel."
"Do you mean that she hates you?" the Countess enquired.
"I don't know; I want to see. That's what I'm going to Rome for."
"Dear me, what a tiresome errand!" the Countess exclaimed.
"She doesn't write to me in the same way; it's easy to see
there's a difference. If you know anything," Miss Stackpole went
on, "I should like to hear it beforehand, so as to decide on the
line I shall take."
The Countess thrust out her under lip and gave a gradual shrug.
"I know very little; I see and hear very little of Osmond. He
doesn't like me any better than he appears to like you."
"Yet you're not a lady correspondent," said Henrietta pensively.
"Oh, he has plenty of reasons. Nevertheless they've invited me--
I'm to stay in the house!" And the Countess smiled almost
fiercely; her exultation, for the moment, took little account of
Miss Stackpole's disappointment.
This lady, however, regarded it very placidly. "I shouldn't have
gone if she HAD asked me. That is I think I shouldn't; and I'm
glad I hadn't to make up my mind. It would have been a very
difficult question. I shouldn't have liked to turn away from her,
and yet I shouldn't have been happy under her roof. A pension
will suit me very well. But that's not all."
"Rome's very good just now," said the Countess; "there are all
sorts of brilliant people. Did you ever hear of Lord Warburton?"
"Hear of him? I know him very well. Do you consider him very
brilliant?" Henrietta enquired.
"I don't know him, but I'm told he's extremely grand seigneur.
He's making love to Isabel."
"Making love to her?"
"So I'm told; I don't know the details," said the Countess lightly.
"But Isabel's pretty safe."
Henrietta gazed earnestly at her companion; for a moment she said
nothing. "When do you go to Rome?" she enquired abruptly.
"Not for a week, I'm afraid."
"I shall go to-morrow," Henrietta said. "I think I had better not
"Dear me, I'm sorry; I 'm having some dresses made. I'm told
Isabel receives immensely. But I shall see you there; I shall
call on you at your pension." Henrietta sat still--she was lost
in thought; and suddenly the Countess cried: "Ah, but if you
don't go with me you can't describe our journey!"
Miss Stackpole seemed unmoved by this consideration; she was
thinking of something else and presently expressed it. "I'm not
sure that I understand you about Lord Warburton."
"Understand me? I mean he's very nice, that's all."
"Do you consider it nice to make love to married women?"
Henrietta enquired with unprecedented distinctness.
The Countess stared, and then with a little violent laugh: "It's
certain all the nice men do it. Get married and you'll see!" she
"That idea would be enough to prevent me," said Miss Stackpole.
"I should want my own husband; I shouldn't want any one else's.
Do you mean that Isabel's guilty--guilty--?" And she paused a
little, choosing her expression.
"Do I mean she's guilty? Oh dear no, not yet, I hope. I only mean
that Osmond's very tiresome and that Lord Warburton, as I hear,
is a great deal at the house. I'm afraid you're scandalised."
"No, I'm just anxious," Henrietta said.
"Ah, you're not very complimentary to Isabel! You should have
more confidence. I'll tell you," the Countess added quickly: "if
it will be a comfort to you I engage to draw him off."
Miss Stackpole answered at first only with the deeper solemnity
of her gaze. "You don't understand me," she said after a while.
"I haven't the idea you seem to suppose. I'm not afraid for
Isabel--in that way. I'm only afraid she's unhappy--that's what I
want to get at."
The Countess gave a dozen turns of the head; she looked impatient
and sarcastic. "That may very well be; for my part I should like
to know whether Osmond is." Miss Stackpole had begun a little to
"If she's really changed that must be at the bottom of it,"
Henrietta went on.
"You'll see; she'll tell you," said the Countess.
"Ah, she may NOT tell me--that's what I'm afraid of!"
"Well, if Osmond isn't amusing himself--in his own old way--I
flatter myself I shall discover it," the Countess rejoined.
"I don't care for that," said Henrietta.
"I do immensely! If Isabel's unhappy I'm very sorry for her, but
I can't help it. I might tell her something that would make her
worse, but I can't tell her anything that would console her. What
did she go and marry him for? If she had listened to me she'd
have got rid of him. I'll forgive her, however, if I find she has
made things hot for him! If she has simply allowed him to trample
upon her I don't know that I shall even pity her. But I don't
think that's very likely. I count upon finding that if she's
miserable she has at least made HIM so."
Henrietta got up; these seemed to her, naturally, very dreadful
expectations. She honestly believed she had no desire to see Mr.
Osmond unhappy; and indeed he could not be for her the subject of
a flight of fancy. She was on the whole rather disappointed in
the Countess, whose mind moved in a narrower circle than she had
imagined, though with a capacity for coarseness even there. "It
will be better if they love each other," she said for
"They can't. He can't love any one."
"I presumed that was the case. But it only aggravates my fear for
Isabel. I shall positively start to-morrow."
"Isabel certainly has devotees," said the Countess, smiling very
vividly. "I declare I don't pity her."
"It may be I can't assist her," Miss Stackpole pursued, as if it
were well not to have illusions.
"You can have wanted to, at any rate; that's something. I
believe that's what you came from America for," the Countess
"Yes, I wanted to look after her," Henrietta said serenely.
Her hostess stood there smiling at her with small bright eyes and
an eager-looking nose; with cheeks into each of which a flush had
come. "Ah, that's very pretty c'est bien gentil! Isn't it what
they call friendship?"
"I don't know what they call it. I thought I had better come."
"She's very happy--she's very fortunate," the Countess went on.
"She has others besides." And then she broke out passionately.
"She's more fortunate than I! I'm as unhappy as she--I've a very
bad husband; he's a great deal worse than Osmond. And I've no
friends. I thought I had, but they're gone. No one, man or woman,
would do for me what you've done for her."
Henrietta was touched; there was nature in this bitter effusion.
She gazed at her companion a moment, and then: "Look here,
Countess, I'll do anything for you that you like. I'll wait over
and travel with you."
"Never mind," the Countess answered with a quick change of tone:
"only describe me in the newspaper!"
Henrietta, before leaving her, however, was obliged to make her
understand that she could give no fictitious representation of
her journey to Rome. Miss Stackpole was a strictly veracious
reporter. On quitting her she took the way to the Lung' Arno,
the sunny quay beside the yellow river where the bright-faced
inns familiar to tourists stand all in a row. She had learned her
way before this through the streets of Florence (she was very
quick in such matters), and was therefore able to turn with great
decision of step out of the little square which forms the
approach to the bridge of the Holy Trinity. She proceeded to the
left, toward the Ponte Vecchio, and stopped in front of one of
the hotels which overlook that delightful structure. Here she
drew forth a small pocket-book, took from it a card and a pencil
and, after meditating a moment, wrote a few words. It is our
privilege to look over her shoulder, and if we exercise it we may
read the brief query: "Could I see you this evening for a few
moments on a very important matter?" Henrietta added that she
should start on the morrow for Rome. Armed with this little
document she approached the porter, who now had taken up his
station in the doorway, and asked if Mr. Goodwood were at home.
The porter replied, as porters always reply, that he had gone out
about twenty minutes before; whereupon Henrietta presented her
card and begged it might be handed him on his return. She left
the inn and pursued her course along the quay to the severe
portico of the Uffizi, through which she presently reached the
entrance of the famous gallery of paintings. Making her way in,
she ascended the high staircase which leads to the upper
chambers. The long corridor, glazed on one side and decorated
with antique busts, which gives admission to these apartments,
presented an empty vista in which the bright winter light
twinkled upon the marble floor. The gallery is very cold and
during the midwinter weeks but scantily visited. Miss Stackpole
may appear more ardent in her quest of artistic beauty than she
has hitherto struck us as being, but she had after all her
preferences and admirations. One of the latter was the little
Correggio of the Tribune--the Virgin kneeling down before the
sacred infant, who lies in a litter of straw, and clapping her
hands to him while he delightedly laughs and crows. Henrietta had
a special devotion to this intimate scene--she thought it the
most beautiful picture in the world. On her way, at present, from
New York to Rome, she was spending but three days in Florence,
and yet reminded herself that they must not elapse without her
paying another visit to her favourite work of art. She had a
great sense of beauty in all ways, and it involved a good many
intellectual obligations. She was about to turn into the Tribune
when a gentleman came out of it; whereupon she gave a little
exclamation and stood before Caspar Goodwood.
"I've just been at your hotel," she said. "I left a card for
"I'm very much honoured," Caspar Goodwood answered as if he
really meant it.
"It was not to honour you I did it; I've called on you before and
I know you don't like it. It was to talk to you a little about
He looked for a moment at the buckle in her hat. "I shall be very
glad to hear what you wish to say."
"You don't like to talk with me," said Henrietta. "But I don't
care for that; I don't talk for your amusement. I wrote a word to
ask you to come and see me; but since I've met you here this will
do as well."
"I was just going away," Goodwood stated; "but of course I'll
stop." He was civil, but not enthusiastic.
Henrietta, however, never looked for great professions, and she
was so much in earnest that she was thankful he would listen to
her on any terms. She asked him first, none the less, if he had
seen all the pictures.
"All I want to. I've been here an hour."
"I wonder if you've seen my Correggio," said Henrietta. "I came
up on purpose to have a look at it." She went into the Tribune
and he slowly accompanied her.
"I suppose I've seen it, but I didn't know it was yours. I don't
remember pictures--especially that sort." She had pointed out her
favourite work, and he asked her if it was about Correggio she
wished to talk with him.
"No," said Henrietta, "it's about something less harmonious!"
They had the small, brilliant room, a splendid cabinet of
treasures, to themselves; there was only a custode hovering
about the Medicean Venus. "I want you to do me a favour," Miss
Stackpole went on.
Caspar Goodwood frowned a little, but he expressed no
embarrassment at the sense of not looking eager. His face was
that of a much older man than our earlier friend. "I'm sure it's
something I shan't like," he said rather loudly.
"No, I don't think you'll like it. If you did it would be no
"Well, let's hear it," he went on in the tone of a man quite
conscious of his patience.
"You may say there's no particular reason why you should do me a
favour. Indeed I only know of one: the fact that if you'd let me
I'd gladly do you one." Her soft, exact tone, in which there was
no attempt at effect, had an extreme sincerity; and her
companion, though he presented rather a hard surface, couldn't help
being touched by it. When he was touched he rarely showed it,
however, by the usual signs; he neither blushed, nor looked away,
nor looked conscious. He only fixed his attention more directly;
he seemed to consider with added firmness. Henrietta continued
therefore disinterestedly, without the sense of an advantage. "I
may say now, indeed--it seems a good time--that if I've ever
annoyed you (and I think sometimes I have) it's because I knew I
was willing to suffer annoyance for you. I've troubled you--
doubtless. But Is'd TAKE trouble for you."
Goodwood hesitated. "You're taking trouble now."
"Yes, I am--some. I want you to consider whether it's better on
the whole that you should go to Rome."
"I thought you were going to say that!" he answered rather
"You HAVE considered it then?"
"Of course I have, very carefully. I've looked all round it.
Otherwise I shouldn't have come so far as this. That's what I
stayed in Paris two months for. I was thinking it over."
"I'm afraid you decided as you liked. You decided it was best
because you were so much attracted."
"Best for whom, do you mean?" Goodwood demanded.
"Well, for yourself first. For Mrs. Osmond next."
"Oh, it won't do HER any good! I don't flatter myself that."
"Won't it do her some harm?--that's the question."
"I don't see what it will matter to her. I'm nothing to Mrs.
Osmond. But if you want to know, I do want to see her myself."
"Yes, and that's why you go."
"Of course it is. Could there be a better reason?"
"How will it help you?--that's what I want to know," said Miss
"That's just what I can't tell you. It's just what I was thinking
about in Paris."
"It will make you more discontented."
"Why do you say 'more' so?" Goodwood asked rather sternly. "How
do you know I'm discontented?"
"Well," said Henrietta, hesitating a little, "you seem never to
have cared for another."
"How do you know what I care for?" he cried with a big blush.
"Just now I care to go to Rome."
Henrietta looked at him in silence, with a sad yet luminous
expression. "Well," she observed at last, "I only wanted to tell
you what I think; I had it on my mind. Of course you think it's
none of my business. But nothing is any one's business, on that
"It's very kind of you; I'm greatly obliged to you for your
interest," said Caspar Goodwood. "I shall go to Rome and I shan't
hurt Mrs. Osmond."
"You won't hurt her, perhaps. But will you help her?--that's the
"Is she in need of help?" he asked slowly, with a penetrating
"Most women always are," said Henrietta, with conscientious
evasiveness and generalising less hopefully than usual. "If you
go to Rome," she added, "I hope you'll be a true friend--snot a
selfish one!" And she turned off and began to look at the
Caspar Goodwood let her go and stood watching her while she
wandered round the room; but after a moment he rejoined her.
"You've heard something about her here," he then resumed. "I
should like to know what you've heard."
Henrietta had never prevaricated in her life, and, though on this
occasion there might have been a fitness in doing so, she
decided, after thinking some minutes, to make no superficial
exception. "Yes, I've heard," she answered; "but as I don't want
you to go to Rome I won't tell you."
"Just as you please. I shall see for myself," he said. Then
inconsistently, for him, "You've heard she's unhappy!" he added.
"Oh, you won't see that!" Henrietta exclaimed.
"I hope not. When do you start?"
"To-morrow, by the evening train. And you?"
Goodwood hung back; he had no desire to make his journey to Rome
in Miss Stackpole's company. His indifference to this advantage
was not of the same character as Gilbert Osmond's, but it had at
this moment an equal distinctness. It was rather a tribute to
Miss Stackpole's virtues than a reference to her faults. He
thought her very remarkable, very brilliant, and he had, in
theory, no objection to the class to which she belonged. Lady
correspondents appeared to him a part of the natural scheme of
things in a progressive country, and though he never read their
letters he supposed that they ministered somehow to social
prosperity. But it was this very eminence of their position that
made him wish Miss Stackpole didn't take so much for granted. She
took for granted that he was always ready for some allusion to
Mrs. Osmond; she had done so when they met in Paris, six weeks
after his arrival in Europe, and she had repeated the assumption
with every successive opportunity. He had no wish whatever to
allude to Mrs. Osmond; he was NOT always thinking of her; he was
perfectly sure of that. He was the most reserved, the least
colloquial of men, and this enquiring authoress was constantly
flashing her lantern into the quiet darkness of his soul. He
wished she didn't care so much; he even wished, though it might
seem rather brutal of him, that she would leave him alone. In
spite of this, however, he just now made other reflections--which
show how widely different, in effect, his ill-humour was from
Gilbert Osmond's. He desired to go immediately to Rome; he would
have liked to go alone, in the night-train. He hated the European
railway-carriages, in which one sat for hours in a vise, knee to
knee and nose to nose with a foreigner to whom one presently
found one's self objecting with all the added vehemence of one's
wish to have the window open; and if they were worse at night
even than by day, at least at night one could sleep and dream of
an American saloon-car. But he couldn't take a night-train when
Miss Stackpole was starting in the morning; it struck him that
this would be an insult to an unprotected woman. Nor could he
wait until after she had gone unless he should wait longer than
he had patience for. It wouldn't do to start the next day. She
worried him; she oppressed him; the idea of spending the day in a
European railway-carriage with her offered a complication of
irritations. Still, she was a lady travelling alone; it was his
duty to put himself out for her. There could be no two questions
about that; it was a perfectly clear necessity. He looked
extremely grave for some moments and then said, wholly without
the flourish of gallantry but in a tone of extreme distinctness,
"Of course if you're going to-morrow I'll go too, as I may be of
assistance to you."
"Well, Mr. Goodwood, I should hope so!" Henrietta returned
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