‘As often as you would let me. You don’t always take it; then one has to let you alone. It’s not to do you a kindness, however, that I’ve come to-day; it’s quite another affair. I’ve come to get rid of a trouble of my own—to make it over to you. I’ve been talking to your husband about it.’

‘I’m surprised at that; he doesn’t like troubles.’

‘Especially other people’s; I know very well. But neither do you, I suppose. At any rate, whether you do or not, you must help me. It’s about poor Mr Rosier.’

‘Ah,’ said Isabel reflectively, ‘it’s his trouble then, not yours.’

‘He has succeeded in saddling me with it. He comes to see me ten times a week, to talk about Pansy.’

‘Yes, he wants to marry her. I know all about it.’

Madame Merle hesitated. ‘I gathered from your husband that perhaps you didn’t.’

‘How should he know what I know? He has never spoken to me of the matter.’

‘It’s probably because he doesn’t know how to speak of it.’

‘It’s nevertheless the sort of question in which he’s rarely at fault.’

‘Yes, because as a general thing he knows perfectly well what to think. To-day he doesn’t.’

‘Haven’t you been telling him?’ Isabel asked.

Madame Merle gave a bright, voluntary smile. ‘Do you know you’re a little dry?’

‘Yes; I can’t help it. Mr Rosier has also talked to me.’

‘In that there’s some reason. You’re so near the child.’

‘Ah,’ said Isabel, ‘for all the comfort I’ve given him! If you think me dry, I wonder what he thinks.’

‘I believe he thinks you can do more than you have done.’

‘I can do nothing.’

‘You can do more at least than I. I don’t know what mysterious connection he may have discovered between me and Pansy; but he came to me from the first, as if I held his fortune in my hand. Now he keeps coming back, to spur me up, to know what hope there is, to pour out his feelings.’

‘He’s very much in love,’ said Isabel.

‘Very much—for him.’

‘Very much for Pansy, you might say as well.’

Madame Merle dropped her eyes a moment. ‘Don’t you think she’s attractive?’

‘The dearest little person possible—but very limited.’

‘She ought to be all the easier for Mr Rosier to love. Mr Rosier’s not unlimited.’

‘No,’ said Isabel, ‘he has about the extent of one’s pocket-handkerchief—the small ones with lace borders.’ Her humour had lately turned a good deal to sarcasm, but in a moment she was ashamed of exercising