‘You sometimes change your mind, however. You told me on your return from England that you wouldn’t leave Rome again for the present.’
‘I’m pleased that you remember so well what I say. That was my intention. But I’ve come to Florence to meet some friends, who have lately arrived and as to whose movements I was at that time uncertain.’
‘That reason’s characteristic. You’re always doing something for your friends.’
Madame Merle smiled straight at her host. ‘It’s less characteristic than your comment upon it—which is perfectly insincere. I don’t, however, make a crime of that,’ she added, ‘because if you don’t believe what you say there’s no reason why you should. I don’t ruin myself for my friends; I don’t deserve your praise. I care greatly for myself.’
‘Exactly; but yourself includes so many other selves—so much of every one else and of everything. I never knew a person whose life touched so many other lives.’
‘What do you call one’s life?’ asked Madame Merle. ‘One’s appearance, one’s movements, one’s engagements, one’s society?’
‘I call your life your ambitions,’ said Osmond.
Madame Merle looked a moment at Pansy. ‘I wonder if she understands that,’ she murmured.
‘You see she can’t stay with us!’ And Pansy’s father gave rather a joyless smile. ‘Go into the garden, mignonne,10 and pluck a flower or two for Madame Merle,’ he went on in French.
‘That’s just what I wanted to do,’ Pansy exclaimed, rising with promptness and noiselessly departing. Her father followed her to the open door, stood a moment watching her, and then came back, but remained standing, or rather strolling to and fro, as if to cultivate a sense of freedom which in another attitude might be wanting.
‘My ambitions are principally for you,’ said Madame Merle, looking up at him with a certain courage.
‘That comes back to what I say. I’m part of your life—I and a thousand others. You’re not selfish—I can’t admit that. If you were selfish, what should I be? What epithet would properly describe me?’
‘You’re indolent. For me that’s your worst fault.’
‘I’m afraid it’s really my best.’
‘You don’t care,’ said Madame Merle gravely.
‘No; I don’t think I care much. What sort of a fault do you call that? My indolence, at any rate, was one of the reasons I didn’t go to Rome. But it was only one of them.’
‘It’s not of importance—to me at least—that you didn’t go; though I should have been glad to see you. I’m glad you’re not in Rome now—which you might be, would probably be, if you had gone there a month ago. There’s something I should like you to do at present in Florence.’
‘Please remember my indolence,’ said Osmond.
‘I do remember it; but I beg you to forget it. In that way you’ll have both the virtue and the reward. This is not a great labour, and it may prove a real interest. How long is it since you made a new acquaintance?’
‘I don’t think I’ve made any since I made yours.’
‘It’s time then you should make another. There’s a friend of mine I want you to know.’