‘I’m afraid you lose a good deal!’ Lord Warburton called after him, as he moved away, in a tone which perhaps betrayed overmuch an appreciation of his generosity. Then the visitor turned on Isabel the deeper, the deepest, consciousness of his look, which gradually became more serious. ‘I’m really very glad to see you.’

‘It’s very pleasant. You’re very kind.’

‘Do you know that you’re changed—a little?’

She just hesitated. ‘Yes—a good deal.’

‘I don’t mean for the worse, of course; and yet how can I say for the better?’

‘I think I shall have no scruple in saying that to you,’ she bravely returned.

‘Ah well, for me—it’s a long time. It would be a pity there shouldn’t be something to show for it.’ They sat down and she asked him about his sisters, with other enquiries of a somewhat perfunctory kind. He answered her questions as if they interested him, and in a few moments she saw—or believed she saw—that he would press with less of his whole weight than of yore. Time had breathed upon his heart and, without chilling it, given it a relieved sense of having taken the air. Isabel felt her usual esteem for Time rise at a bound. Her friend’s manner was certainly that of a contented man, one who would rather like people, or like her at least, to know him for such. ‘There’s something I must tell you without more delay,’ he resumed. ‘I’ve brought Ralph Touchett with me.’

‘Brought him with you?’ Isabel’s surprise was great.

‘He’s at the hotel; he was too tired to come out and has gone to bed.’

‘I’ll go to see him,’ she immediately said.

‘That’s exactly what I hoped you’d do. I had an idea you hadn’t seen much of him since your marriage, that in fact your relations were a—a little more formal. That’s why I hesitated—like an awkward Briton.’

‘I’m as fond of Ralph as ever,’ Isabel answered. ‘But why has he come to Rome?’ The declaration was very gentle, the question a little sharp.

‘Because he’s very far gone, Mrs Osmond.’

‘Rome then is no place for him. I heard from him that he had determined to give up his custom of wintering abroad and to remain in England, indoors, in what he called an artificial climate.’

‘Poor fellow, he don’t succeed with the artificial! I went to see him three weeks ago, at Gardencourt, and found him thoroughly ill. He has been getting worse every year, and now he has no strength left. He smokes no more cigarettes! He had got up an artificial climate indeed; the house was as hot as Calcutta. Nevertheless he had suddenly taken into his head to start for Sicily. I didn’t believe in it—neither did the doctors, nor any of his friends. His mother, as I suppose you know, is in America, so there was no one to prevent him. He stuck to his idea that it would be the saving of him to spend the winter at Catania. He said he could take servants and furniture, could make himself comfortable, but in point of fact he hasn’t brought anything. I wanted him at least to go by sea, to save fatigue; but he said he hated the sea and wished to stop at Rome. After that, though I thought it all rubbish, I made up my mind to come with him. I’m acting as—what do you call it in America?—as a kind of moderator. Poor Ralph’s very moderate now. We left England a fortnight ago, and he has been very bad on the way. He can’t keep warm, and the further south we come the more he feels the cold. He has got rather a good man, but I’m afraid he’s beyond human help. I wanted him to take with him some clever fellow—I mean some sharp young doctor; but he wouldn’t hear of it. If you don’t mind my saying so, I think it was a most extraordinary time for Mrs Touchett to decide on going to America.’