Madame Merle perceptibly flushed, but we know it was not her habit to retract. ‘My dear child, I didn’t speak for him, poor man; I spoke for yourself. It’s not of course a question as to his liking you; it matters little whether he likes you or not! But I thought you liked him.’

‘I did,’ said Isabel honestly. ‘But I don’t see what that matters either.’

‘Everything that concerns you matters to me,’ Madame Merle returned with her weary nobleness; ‘especially when at the same time another old friend’s concerned.’

Whatever Isabel’s obligations may have been to Mr Osmond, it must be admitted that she found them sufficient to lead her to put to Ralph sundry questions about him. She thought Ralph’s judgements distorted by his trials, but she flattered herself she had learned to make allowance for that.

‘Do I know him?’ said her cousin. ‘Oh, yes, I “know” him; not well, but on the whole enough. I’ve never cultivated his society, and he apparently has never found mine indispensable to his happiness. Who is he, what is he? He’s a vague, unexplained American who has been living these thirty years, or less, in Italy. Why do I call him unexplained? Only as a cover for my ignorance; I don’t know his antecedents, his family, his origin. For all I do know he may be a prince in disguise; he rather looks like one, by the way—like a prince who has abdicated in a fit of fastidiousness and has been in a state of disgust ever since. He used to live in Rome; but of late years he has taken up his abode here; I remember hearing him say that Rome has grown vulgar. He has a great dread of vulgarity; that’s his special line; he hasn’t any other that I know of. He lives on his income, which I suspect of not being vulgarly large. He’s a poor but honest gentleman—that’s what he calls himself. He married young and lost his wife, and I believe he has a daughter. He also has a sister, who’s married to some small Count or other, of these parts; I remember meeting her of old. She’s nicer than he, I should think, but rather impossible. I remember there used to be some stories about her. I don’t think I recommend you to know her. But why don’t you ask Madame Merle about these people? She knows them all much better than I.’

‘I ask you because I want your opinion as well as hers,’ said Isabel.

‘A fig for my opinion! If you fall in love with Mr Osmond what will you care for that?’

‘Not much, probably. But meanwhile it has a certain importance. The more information one has about one’s dangers the better.’

‘I don’t agree to that—it may make them dangers. We know too much about people in these days; we hear too much. Our ears, our minds, our mouths, are stuffed with personalities. Don’t mind anything any one tells you about any one else. Judge every one and everything for yourself.’

‘That’s what I try to do,’ said Isabel; ‘but when you do that people call you conceited.’

‘You’re not to mind them—that’s precisely my argument; not to mind what they say about yourself any more than what they say about your friend or your enemy.’

Isabel considered. ‘I think you’re right; but there are some things I can’t help minding: for instance when my friend’s attacked or when I myself am praised.’

‘Of course you’re always at liberty to judge the critic. Judge people as critics, however,’ Ralph added, ‘and you’ll condemn them all!’

‘I shall see Mr Osmond for myself,’ said Isabel. ‘I’ve promised to pay him a visit.’

‘To pay him a visit?’

‘To go and see his view, his pictures, his daughter—I don’t know exactly what. Madame Merle’s to take me; she tells me a great many ladies call on him.’