‘I’m going to Gardencourt. Ralph Touchett’s dying.’

‘Ah, you’ll feel that.’ Madame Merle recovered herself; she had a chance to express sympathy. ‘Do you go alone?’

‘Yes; without my husband.

Madame Merle gave a low vague murmur; a sort of recognition of the general sadness of things. ‘Mr Touchett never liked me, but I’m sorry he’s dying. Shall you see his mother?’

‘Yes; she has returned from America.’

‘She used to be very kind to me; but she has changed. Others too have changed,’ said Madame Merle with a quiet noble pathos. She paused a moment, then added: ‘And you’ll see dear old Gardencourt again!’

‘I shall not enjoy it much,’ Isabel answered.

‘Naturally—in your grief. But it’s on the whole, of all the houses I know, and I know many, the one I should have liked best to live in. I don’t venture to send a message to the people,’ Madame Merle added; ‘but I should like to give my love to the place.’

Isabel turned away. ‘I had better go to Pansy. I’ve not much time.’

While she looked about her for the proper egress, the door opened and admitted one of the ladies of the house, who advanced with a discreet smile, gently rubbing, under her long loose sleeves, a pair of plump white hands. Isabel recognized Madame Catherine, whose acquaintance she had already made, and begged that she would immediately let her see Miss Osmond. Madame Catherine looked doubly discreet, but smiled very blandly and said: ‘It will be good for her to see you. I’ll take you to her myself.’ Then she directed her pleased guarded vision to Madame Merle.

‘Will you let me remain a little?’ this lady asked. ‘It’s so good to be here.’

‘You may remain always if you like!’² And the good sister gave a knowing laugh.

She led Isabel out of the room, through several corridors, and up a long staircase. All these departments were solid and bare, light and clean; so, thought Isabel, are the great penal establishments. Madame Catherine gently pushed open the door of Pansy’s room and ushered in the visitor; then stood smiling with folded hands while the two others met and embraced.

‘She’s glad to see you,’ she repeated; ‘it will do her good.’ And she placed the best chair carefully for Isabel. But she made no movement to seat herself; she seemed ready to retire. ‘How does this dear child look?’ she asked of Isabel, lingering a moment.

‘She looks pale,’ Isabel answered.

‘That’s the pleasure of seeing you. She’s very happy. Elle éclaire la maison,’³ said the good sister.

Pansy wore, as Madame Merle had said, a little black dress; it was perhaps this that made her look pale. ‘They’re very good to me—they think of everything!’ she exclaimed with all her customary eagerness to accommodate.

‘We think of you always—you’re a precious charge,’ Madame Catherine remarked in the tone of a woman with whom benevolence was a habit and whose conception of duty was the acceptance of every care. It fell with a leaden weight on Isabel’s ears; it seemed to represent the surrender of a personality, the authority of the Church.