‘I’m very glad,’ Isabel said. ‘It must be a sudden decision.’

‘Sudden enough, I believe; a courtship of three weeks. It has only just been made public.’

‘I’m very glad,’ Isabel repeated with a larger emphasis. She knew her aunt was watching her—looking for the signs of some imputed soreness, and the desire to prevent her companion from seeing anything of this kind enabled her to speak in the tone of quick satisfaction, the tone almost of relief. Mrs Touchett of course followed the tradition that ladies, even married ones, regard the marriage of their old lovers as an offence to themselves. Isabel’s first care therefore was to show that however that might be in general she was not offended now. But meanwhile, as I say, her heart beat faster; and if she sat for some moments thoughtful—she presently forgot Mrs Touchett’s observation—it was not because she had lost an admirer. Her imagination had traversed half Europe; it halted, panting, and even trembling a little, in the city of Rome. She figured herself announcing to her husband that Lord Warburton was to lead a bride to the altar, and she was of course not aware how extremely wan she must have looked while she made this intellectual effort. But at last she collected herself and said to her aunt: ‘He was sure to do it some time or other.’

Mrs Touchett was silent; then she gave a sharp little shake of the head. ‘Ah, my dear, you’re beyond me!’ she cried suddenly. They went on with their luncheon in silence; Isabel felt as if she had heard of Lord Warburton’s death. She had known him only as a suitor, and now that was all over. He was dead for poor Pansy; by Pansy he might have lived. A servant had been hovering about; at last Mrs Touchett requested him to leave them alone. She had finished her meal; she sat with her hands folded on the edge of the table. ‘I should like to ask you three questions,’ she observed when the servant had gone.

‘Three are a great many.’

‘I can’t do with less; I’ve been thinking. They’re all very good ones.’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of. The best questions are the worst,’ Isabel answered. Mrs Touchett had pushed back her chair, and as her niece left the table and walked, rather consciously, to one of the deep windows, she felt herself followed by her eyes.

‘Have you ever been sorry you didn’t marry Lord Warburton?’ Mrs Touchett enquired.

Isabel shook her head slowly, but not heavily. ‘No, dear aunt.’

‘Good. I ought to tell you that I propose to believe what you say.’

‘Your believing me’s an immense temptation,’ she declared, smiling still.

‘A temptation to lie? I don’t recommend you to do that, for when I’m misinformed I’m as dangerous as a poisoned rat. I don’t mean to crow over you.’

‘It’s my husband who doesn’t get on with me,’ said Isabel.

‘I could have told him he wouldn’t. I don’t call that crowing over you,’ Mrs Touchett added. ‘Do you still like Serena Merle?’ she went on.

‘Not as I once did. But it doesn’t matter, for she’s going to America.’

‘To America? She must have done something very bad.’

‘Yes—very bad.’

‘May I ask what it is?’