‘Where’s the letter you told me he had written me?’ her husband demanded.

‘I haven’t the least idea; I haven’t asked him.’

‘You stopped it on the way,’ said Osmond.

Isabel slowly got up; standing there in her white cloak, which covered her to her feet, she might have represented the angel of disdain, first cousin to that of pity. ‘Oh, Gilbert, for a man who was so fine—!’ she exclaimed in a long murmur.

‘I was never so fine as you. You’ve done everything you wanted. You’ve got him out of the way without appearing to do so, and you’ve placed me in the position in which you wished to see me—that of a man who has tried to marry his daughter to a lord, but has grotesquely failed.’

‘Pansy doesn’t care for him. She’s very glad he’s gone,’ Isabel said.

‘That has nothing to do with the matter.’

‘And he doesn’t care for Pansy.’

‘That won’t do; you told me he did. I don’t know why you wanted this particular satisfaction,’ Osmond continued; ‘you might have taken some other. It doesn’t seem to me that I’ve been presumptuous—that I have taken too much for granted. I’ve been very modest about it, very quiet. The idea didn’t originate with me. He began to show that he liked her before I ever thought of it. I left it all to you.’

‘Yes, you were very glad to leave it to me. After this you must attend to such things yourself.’

He looked at her a moment; then he turned away. ‘I thought you were very fond of my daughter.’

‘I’ve never been more so than to-day.’

‘Your affection is attended with immense limitations. However, that perhaps is natural.’

‘Is this all you wished to say to me?’ Isabel asked, taking a candle that stood on one of the tables.

‘Are you satisfied? Am I sufficiently disappointed?’

‘I don’t think that on the whole you’re disappointed. You’ve had another opportunity to try to stupefy me.’

‘It’s not that. It’s proved that Pansy can aim high.’

‘Poor little Pansy!’ said Isabel as she turned away with her candle.