held her in check; it was simply the violence there would be in going when Osmond wished her to remain. A gulf of difference had opened between them, but nevertheless it was his desire that she should stay, it was a horror to him that she should go. She knew the nervous fineness with which he could feel an objection. What he thought of her she knew, what he was capable of saying to her she had felt; yet they were married, for all that, and marriage meant that a woman should cleave to the man with whom, uttering tremendous vows, she had stood at the altar. She sank down on the sofa at last and buried her head in a pile of cushions.

When she raised her head again the Countess Gemini hovered before her. She had come in all unperceived; she had a strange smile on her thin lips and her whole face had grown in an hour a shining intimation. She lived assuredly, it might be said, at the window of her spirit, but now she was leaning far out. ‘I knocked,’ she began, ‘but you didn’t answer me. So I ventured in. I’ve been looking at you for the last five minutes. You’re very unhappy.’

‘Yes; but I don’t think you can comfort me.’

‘Will you give me leave to try?’ And the Countess sat down on the sofa beside her. She continued to smile, and there was something communicative and exultant in her expression. She appeared to have a deal to say, and it occurred to Isabel for the first time that her sister-in-law might say something really human. She made play with her glittering eyes, in which there was an unpleasant fascination. ‘After all,’ she soon resumed, ‘I must tell you, to begin with, that I don’t understand your state of mind. You seem to have so many scruples, so many reasons, so many ties. When I discovered, ten years ago, that my husband’s dearest wish was to make me miserable—of late he has simply let me alone—ah, it was a wonderful simplification! My poor Isabel, you’re not simple enough.’

‘No, I’m not simple enough,’ said Isabel.

‘There’s something I want you to know,’ the Countess declared—‘because I think you ought to know it. Perhaps you do; perhaps you’ve guessed it. But if you have, all I can say is that I understand still less why you shouldn’t do as you like.’

‘What do you wish me to know?’ Isabel felt a foreboding that made her heart beat faster. The Countess was about to justify herself, and this alone was portentous.

But she was nevertheless disposed to play a little with her subject. ‘In your place I should have guessed it ages ago. Have you never really suspected?’

‘I’ve guessed nothing. What should I have suspected? I don’t know what you mean.’

‘That’s because you’ve such a beastly pure mind. I never saw a woman with such a pure mind!’ cried the Countess.

Isabel slowly got up. ‘You’re going to tell me something horrible.’

‘You can call it by whatever name you will!’ And the Countess rose also, while her gathered perversity grew vivid and dreadful. She stood a moment in a sort of glare of intention and, as seemed to Isabel even then, of ugliness; after which she said: ‘My first sister-in-law had no children.’

Isabel stared back at her; the announcement was an anticlimax. ‘Your first sister-in-law?’

‘I suppose you know at least, if one may mention it, that Osmond has been married before! I’ve never spoken to you of his wife; I thought it mightn’t be decent or respectful. But others, less particular, must have done so. The poor little woman lived hardly three years and died childless. It wasn’t till after her death that Pansy arrived.’