The Portrait of a Lady — Volume 2

by Henry James

  CHAPTER XLIV

  The Countess Gemini was often extremely bored--bored, in her own phrase,to extinction. She had not been extinguished, however, and shestruggled bravely enough with her destiny, which had been to marry anunaccommodating Florentine who insisted upon living in his native town,where he enjoyed such consideration as might attach to a gentleman whosetalent for losing at cards had not the merit of being incidental to anobliging disposition. The Count Gemini was not liked even by those whowon from him; and he bore a name which, having a measurable value inFlorence, was, like the local coin of the old Italian states, withoutcurrency in other parts of the peninsula. In Rome he was simply a verydull Florentine, and it is not remarkable that he should not have caredto pay frequent visits to a place where, to carry it off, his dulnessneeded more explanation than was convenient. The Countess lived with hereyes upon Rome, and it was the constant grievance of her life that shehad not an habitation there. She was ashamed to say how seldom she hadbeen allowed to visit that city; it scarcely made the matter better thatthere were other members of the Florentine nobility who never had beenthere at all. She went whenever she could; that was all she could say.Or rather not all, but all she said she could say. In fact she had muchmore to say about it, and had often set forth the reasons why she hatedFlorence and wished to end her days in the shadow of Saint Peter's. Theyare reasons, however, that do not closely concern us, and were usuallysummed up in the declaration that Rome, in short, was the Eternal Cityand that Florence was simply a pretty little place like any other. TheCountess apparently needed to connect the idea of eternity withher amusements. She was convinced that society was infinitely moreinteresting in Rome, where you met celebrities all winter at eveningparties. At Florence there were no celebrities; none at least that onehad heard of. Since her brother's marriage her impatience had greatlyincreased; she was so sure his wife had a more brilliant life thanherself. She was not so intellectual as Isabel, but she was intellectualenough to do justice to Rome--not to the ruins and the catacombs, noteven perhaps to the monuments and museums, the church ceremonies and thescenery; but certainly to all the rest. She heard a great deal abouther sister-in-law and knew perfectly that Isabel was having a beautifultime. She had indeed seen it for herself on the only occasion on whichshe had enjoyed the hospitality of Palazzo Roccanera. She had spent aweek there during the first winter of her brother's marriage, but shehad not been encouraged to renew this satisfaction. Osmond didn't wanther--that she was perfectly aware of; but she would have gone all thesame, for after all she didn't care two straws about Osmond. It washer husband who wouldn't let her, and the money question was alwaysa trouble. Isabel had been very nice; the Countess, who had liked hersister-in-law from the first, had not been blinded by envy to Isabel'spersonal merits. She had always observed that she got on better withclever women than with silly ones like herself; the silly ones couldnever understand her wisdom, whereas the clever ones--the reallyclever ones--always understood her silliness. It appeared to her that,different as they were in appearance and general style, Isabel and shehad somewhere a patch of common ground that they would set their feetupon at last. It was not very large, but it was firm, and they shouldboth know it when once they had really touched it. And then she lived,with Mrs. Osmond, under the influence of a pleasant surprise; she wasconstantly expecting that Isabel would "look down" on her, and she asconstantly saw this operation postponed. She asked herself when it wouldbegin, like fire-works, or Lent, or the opera season not that shecared much, but she wondered what kept it in abeyance. Her sister-in-lawregarded her with none but level glances and expressed for the poorCountess as little contempt as admiration. In reality Isabel would assoon have thought of despising her as of passing a moral judgement on agrasshopper. She was not indifferent to her husband's sister, however;she was rather a little afraid of her. She wondered at her; she thoughther very extraordinary. The Countess seemed to her to have no soul; shewas like a bright rare shell, with a polished surface and a remarkablypink lip, in which something would rattle when you shook it. This rattlewas apparently the Countess's spiritual principle, a little loose nutthat tumbled about inside of her. She was too odd for disdain, tooanomalous for comparisons. Isabel would have invited her again (therewas no question of inviting the Count); but Osmond, after his marriage,had not scrupled to say frankly that Amy was a fool of the worstspecies--a fool whose folly had the irrepressibility of genius. He saidat another time that she had no heart; and he added in a moment that shehad given it all away--in small pieces, like a frosted wedding-cake.The fact of not having been asked was of course another obstacle tothe Countess's going again to Rome; but at the period with which thishistory has now to deal she was in receipt of an invitation to spendseveral weeks at Palazzo Roccanera. The proposal had come from Osmondhimself, who wrote to his sister that she must be prepared to be veryquiet. Whether or no she found in this phrase all the meaning he hadput into it I am unable to say; but she accepted the invitation on anyterms. She was curious, moreover; for one of the impressions of herformer visit had been that her brother had found his match. Before themarriage she had been sorry for Isabel, so sorry as to have had seriousthoughts--if any of the Countess's thoughts were serious--of puttingher on her guard. But she had let that pass, and after a little she wasreassured. Osmond was as lofty as ever, but his wife would not be aneasy victim. The Countess was not very exact at measurements, but itseemed to her that if Isabel should draw herself up she would be thetaller spirit of the two. What she wanted to learn now was whetherIsabel had drawn herself up; it would give her immense pleasure to seeOsmond overtopped.

  Several days before she was to start for Rome a servant brought her thecard of a visitor--a card with the simple superscription "Henrietta C.Stackpole." The Countess pressed her finger-tips to her forehead; shedidn't remember to have known any such Henrietta as that. The servantthen remarked that the lady had requested him to say that if theCountess should not recognise her name she would know her well enough onseeing her. By the time she appeared before her visitor she had in factreminded herself that there was once a literary lady at Mrs. Touchett's;the only woman of letters she had ever encountered--that is the onlymodern one, since she was the daughter of a defunct poetess. Sherecognised Miss Stackpole immediately, the more so that Miss Stackpoleseemed perfectly unchanged; and the Countess, who was thoroughlygood-natured, thought it rather fine to be called on by a person of thatsort of distinction. She wondered if Miss Stackpole had come on accountof her mother--whether she had heard of the American Corinne. Her motherwas not at all like Isabel's friend; the Countess could see at aglance that this lady was much more contemporary; and she receivedan impression of the improvements that were taking place--chiefly indistant countries--in the character (the professional character) ofliterary ladies. Her mother had been used to wear a Roman scarf thrownover a pair of shoulders timorously bared of their tight black velvet(oh the old clothes!) and a gold laurel-wreath set upon a multitude ofglossy ringlets. She had spoken softly and vaguely, with the accent ofher "Creole" ancestors, as she always confessed; she sighed a great dealand was not at all enterprising. But Henrietta, the Countess could see,was always closely buttoned and compactly braided; there was somethingbrisk and business-like in her appearance; her manner was almostconscientiously familiar. It was as impossible to imagine her evervaguely sighing as to imagine a letter posted without its address. TheCountess could not but feel that the correspondent of the Interviewerwas much more in the movement than the American Corinne. She explainedthat she had called on the Countess because she was the only person sheknew in Florence, and that when she visited a foreign city she liked tosee something more than superficial travellers. She knew Mrs. Touchett,but Mrs. Touchett was in America, and even if she had been in FlorenceHenrietta would not have put herself out for her, since Mrs. Touchettwas not one of her admirations.

  "Do you mean by that that I am?" the Countess graciously asked.

  "Well, I like you better than I do her," said Miss Stackpole.
"I seem toremember that when I saw you before you were very interesting. I don'tknow whether it was an accident or whether it's your usual style. Atany rate I was a good deal struck with what you said. I made use of itafterwards in print."

  "Dear me!" cried the Countess, staring and half-alarmed; "I had no ideaI ever said anything remarkable! I wish I had known it at the time."

  "It was about the position of woman in this city," Miss Stackpoleremarked. "You threw a good deal of light upon it."

  "The position of woman's very uncomfortable. Is that what you mean? Andyou wrote it down and published it?" the Countess went on. "Ah, do letme see it!"

  "I'll write to them to send you the paper if you like," Henrietta said."I didn't mention your name; I only said a lady of high rank. And then Iquoted your views."

  The Countess threw herself hastily backward, tossing up her claspedhands. "Do you know I'm rather sorry you didn't mention my name? Ishould have rather liked to see my name in the papers. I forget what myviews were; I have so many! But I'm not ashamed of them. I'm not at alllike my brother--I suppose you know my brother? He thinks it a kind ofscandal to be put in the papers; if you were to quote him he'd neverforgive you."

  "He needn't be afraid; I shall never refer to him," said Miss Stackpolewith bland dryness. "That's another reason," she added, "why I wanted tocome to see you. You know Mr. Osmond married my dearest friend."

  "Ah, yes; you were a friend of Isabel's. I was trying to think what Iknew about you."

  "I'm quite willing to be known by that," Henrietta declared. "But thatisn't what your brother likes to know me by. He has tried to break up myrelations with Isabel."

  "Don't permit it," said the Countess.

  "That's what I want to talk about. I'm going to Rome."

  "So am I!" the Countess cried. "We'll go together."

  "With great pleasure. And when I write about my journey I'll mention youby name as my companion."

  The Countess sprang from her chair and came and sat on the sofa besideher visitor. "Ah, you must send me the paper! My husband won't like it,but he need never see it. Besides, he doesn't know how to read."

  Henrietta's large eyes became immense. "Doesn't know how to read? May Iput that into my letter?"

  "Into your letter?"

  "In the Interviewer. That's my paper."

  "Oh yes, if you like; with his name. Are you going to stay with Isabel?"

  Henrietta held up her head, gazing a little in silence at her hostess."She has not asked me. I wrote to her I was coming, and she answeredthat she would engage a room for me at a pension. She gave no reason."

  The Countess listened with extreme interest. "The reason's Osmond," shepregnantly remarked.

  "Isabel ought to make a stand," said Miss Stackpole. "I'm afraid she haschanged a great deal. I told her she would."

  "I'm sorry to hear it; I hoped she would have her own way. Why doesn'tmy brother like you?" the Countess ingenuously added.

  "I don't know and I don't care. He's perfectly welcome not to like me;I don't want every one to like me; I should think less of myself if somepeople did. A journalist can't hope to do much good unless he gets agood deal hated; that's the way he knows how his work goes on. And it'sjust the same for a lady. But I didn't expect it of Isabel."

  "Do you mean that she hates you?" the Countess enquired.

  "I don't know; I want to see. That's what I'm going to Rome for."

  "Dear me, what a tiresome errand!" the Countess exclaimed.

  "She doesn't write to me in the same way; it's easy to see there's adifference. If you know anything," Miss Stackpole went on, "I shouldlike to hear it beforehand, so as to decide on the line I shall take."

  The Countess thrust out her under lip and gave a gradual shrug. "I knowvery little; I see and hear very little of Osmond. He doesn't like meany better than he appears to like you."

  "Yet you're not a lady correspondent," said Henrietta pensively.

  "Oh, he has plenty of reasons. Nevertheless they've invited me--I'mto stay in the house!" And the Countess smiled almost fiercely; herexultation, for the moment, took little account of Miss Stackpole'sdisappointment.

  This lady, however, regarded it very placidly. "I shouldn't have gone ifshe HAD asked me. That is I think I shouldn't; and I'm glad I hadn'tto make up my mind. It would have been a very difficult question. Ishouldn't have liked to turn away from her, and yet I shouldn't havebeen happy under her roof. A pension will suit me very well. But that'snot all."

  "Rome's very good just now," said the Countess; "there are all sorts ofbrilliant people. Did you ever hear of Lord Warburton?"

  "Hear of him? I know him very well. Do you consider him very brilliant?"Henrietta enquired.

  "I don't know him, but I'm told he's extremely grand seigneur. He'smaking love to Isabel."

  "Making love to her?"

  "So I'm told; I don't know the details," said the Countess lightly. "ButIsabel's pretty safe."

  Henrietta gazed earnestly at her companion for a moment she saidnothing. "When do you go to Rome?" she enquired abruptly.

  "Not for a week, I'm afraid."

  "I shall go to-morrow," Henrietta said. "I think I had better not wait."

  "Dear me, I'm sorry; I'm having some dresses made. I'm told Isabelreceives immensely. But I shall see you there; I shall call on youat your pension." Henrietta sat still--she was lost in thought; andsuddenly the Countess cried: "Ah, but if you don't go with me you can'tdescribe our journey!"

  Miss Stackpole seemed unmoved by this consideration she was thinkingof something else and presently expressed it. "I'm not sure that Iunderstand you about Lord Warburton."

  "Understand me? I mean he's very nice, that's all."

  "Do you consider it nice to make love to married women?" Henriettaenquired with unprecedented distinctness.

  The Countess stared, and then with a little violent laugh: "It's certainall the nice men do it. Get married and you'll see!" she added.

  "That idea would be enough to prevent me," said Miss Stackpole. "Ishould want my own husband; I shouldn't want any one else's. Do you meanthat Isabel's guilty--guilty--?" And she paused a little, choosing herexpression.

  "Do I mean she's guilty? Oh dear no, not yet, I hope. I only mean thatOsmond's very tiresome and that Lord Warburton, as I hear, is a greatdeal at the house. I'm afraid you're scandalised."

  "No, I'm just anxious," Henrietta said.

  "Ah, you're not very complimentary to Isabel! You should have moreconfidence. I'll tell you," the Countess added quickly: "if it will be acomfort to you I engage to draw him off."

  Miss Stackpole answered at first only with the deeper solemnity of hergaze. "You don't understand me," she said after a while. "I haven't theidea you seem to suppose. I'm not afraid for Isabel--in that way. I'monly afraid she's unhappy--that's what I want to get at."

  The Countess gave a dozen turns of the head; she looked impatient andsarcastic. "That may very well be; for my part I should like to knowwhether Osmond is." Miss Stackpole had begun a little to bore her.

  "If she's really changed that must be at the bottom of it," Henriettawent on.

  "You'll see; she'll tell you," said the Countess.

  "Ah, she may NOT tell me--that's what I'm afraid of!"

  "Well, if Osmond isn't amusing himself--in his own old way--I flattermyself I shall discover it," the Countess rejoined.

  "I don't care for that," said Henrietta.

  "I do immensely! If Isabel's unhappy I'm very sorry for her, but I can'thelp it. I might tell her something that would make her worse, but Ican't tell her anything that would console her. What did she go andmarry him for? If she had listened to me she'd have got rid of him. I'llforgive her, however, if I find she has made things hot for him! If shehas simply allowed him to trample upon her I don't know that I shalleven pity her. But I don't think that's very likely. I count uponfinding that if she's miserable she has at least made HIM so."

  Henrietta got up; these seemed to her, naturally, very dread
fulexpectations. She honestly believed she had no desire to see Mr. Osmondunhappy; and indeed he could not be for her the subject of a flight offancy. She was on the whole rather disappointed in the Countess, whosemind moved in a narrower circle than she had imagined, though with acapacity for coarseness even there. "It will be better if they love eachother," she said for edification.

  "They can't. He can't love any one."

  "I presumed that was the case. But it only aggravates my fear forIsabel. I shall positively start to-morrow."

  "Isabel certainly has devotees," said the Countess, smiling veryvividly. "I declare I don't pity her."

  "It may be I can't assist her," Miss Stackpole pursued, as if it werewell not to have illusions.

  "You can have wanted to, at any rate; that's something. I believe that'swhat you came from America for," the Countess suddenly added.

  "Yes, I wanted to look after her," Henrietta said serenely.

  Her hostess stood there smiling at her with small bright eyes and aneager-looking nose; with cheeks into each of which a flush had come."Ah, that's very pretty c'est bien gentil! Isn't it what they callfriendship?"

  "I don't know what they call it. I thought I had better come."

  "She's very happy--she's very fortunate," the Countess went on. "Shehas others besides." And then she broke out passionately. "She's morefortunate than I! I'm as unhappy as she--I've a very bad husband; he's agreat deal worse than Osmond. And I've no friends. I thought I had, butthey're gone. No one, man or woman, would do for me what you've done forher."

  Henrietta was touched; there was nature in this bitter effusion. Shegazed at her companion a moment, and then: "Look here, Countess, I'll doanything for you that you like. I'll wait over and travel with you."

  "Never mind," the Countess answered with a quick change of tone: "onlydescribe me in the newspaper!"

  Henrietta, before leaving her, however, was obliged to make herunderstand that she could give no fictitious representation of herjourney to Rome. Miss Stackpole was a strictly veracious reporter. Onquitting her she took the way to the Lung' Arno, the sunny quay besidethe yellow river where the bright-faced inns familiar to tourists standall in a row. She had learned her way before this through the streets ofFlorence (she was very quick in such matters), and was therefore ableto turn with great decision of step out of the little square which formsthe approach to the bridge of the Holy Trinity. She proceeded to theleft, toward the Ponte Vecchio, and stopped in front of one of thehotels which overlook that delightful structure. Here she drew fortha small pocket-book, took from it a card and a pencil and, aftermeditating a moment, wrote a few words. It is our privilege to look overher shoulder, and if we exercise it we may read the brief query: "CouldI see you this evening for a few moments on a very important matter?"Henrietta added that she should start on the morrow for Rome. Armed withthis little document she approached the porter, who now had taken uphis station in the doorway, and asked if Mr. Goodwood were at home.The porter replied, as porters always reply, that he had gone out abouttwenty minutes before; whereupon Henrietta presented her card and beggedit might be handed him on his return. She left the inn and pursued hercourse along the quay to the severe portico of the Uffizi, through whichshe presently reached the entrance of the famous gallery of paintings.Making her way in, she ascended the high staircase which leads to theupper chambers. The long corridor, glazed on one side and decorated withantique busts, which gives admission to these apartments, presented anempty vista in which the bright winter light twinkled upon the marblefloor. The gallery is very cold and during the midwinter weeks butscantily visited. Miss Stackpole may appear more ardent in her quest ofartistic beauty than she has hitherto struck us as being, but she hadafter all her preferences and admirations. One of the latter was thelittle Correggio of the Tribune--the Virgin kneeling down before thesacred infant, who lies in a litter of straw, and clapping her handsto him while he delightedly laughs and crows. Henrietta had a specialdevotion to this intimate scene--she thought it the most beautifulpicture in the world. On her way, at present, from New York to Rome, shewas spending but three days in Florence, and yet reminded herself thatthey must not elapse without her paying another visit to her favouritework of art. She had a great sense of beauty in all ways, and itinvolved a good many intellectual obligations. She was about to turninto the Tribune when a gentleman came out of it; whereupon she gave alittle exclamation and stood before Caspar Goodwood.

  "I've just been at your hotel," she said. "I left a card for you."

  "I'm very much honoured," Caspar Goodwood answered as if he really meantit.

  "It was not to honour you I did it; I've called on you before and I knowyou don't like it. It was to talk to you a little about something."

  He looked for a moment at the buckle in her hat. "I shall be very gladto hear what you wish to say."

  "You don't like to talk with me," said Henrietta. "But I don't care forthat; I don't talk for your amusement. I wrote a word to ask you to comeand see me; but since I've met you here this will do as well."

  "I was just going away," Goodwood stated; "but of course I'll stop." Hewas civil, but not enthusiastic.

  Henrietta, however, never looked for great professions, and she wasso much in earnest that she was thankful he would listen to her onany terms. She asked him first, none the less, if he had seen all thepictures.

  "All I want to. I've been here an hour."

  "I wonder if you've seen my Correggio," said Henrietta. "I came up onpurpose to have a look at it." She went into the Tribune and he slowlyaccompanied her.

  "I suppose I've seen it, but I didn't know it was yours. I don'tremember pictures--especially that sort." She had pointed out herfavourite work, and he asked her if it was about Correggio she wished totalk with him.

  "No," said Henrietta, "it's about something less harmonious!" Theyhad the small, brilliant room, a splendid cabinet of treasures, tothemselves; there was only a custode hovering about the Medicean Venus."I want you to do me a favour," Miss Stackpole went on.

  Caspar Goodwood frowned a little, but he expressed no embarrassment atthe sense of not looking eager. His face was that of a much older manthan our earlier friend. "I'm sure it's something I shan't like," hesaid rather loudly.

  "No, I don't think you'll like it. If you did it would be no favour."

  "Well, let's hear it," he went on in the tone of a man quite consciousof his patience.

  "You may say there's no particular reason why you should do me a favour.Indeed I only know of one: the fact that if you'd let me I'd gladly doyou one." Her soft, exact tone, in which there was no attempt at effect,had an extreme sincerity; and her companion, though he presented rathera hard surface, couldn't help being touched by it. When he was touchedhe rarely showed it, however, by the usual signs; he neither blushed,nor looked away, nor looked conscious. He only fixed his attention moredirectly; he seemed to consider with added firmness. Henrietta continuedtherefore disinterestedly, without the sense of an advantage. "I may saynow, indeed--it seems a good time--that if I've ever annoyed you (andI think sometimes I have) it's because I knew I was willing to sufferannoyance for you. I've troubled you--doubtless. But I'd TAKE troublefor you."

  Goodwood hesitated. "You're taking trouble now."

  "Yes, I am--some. I want you to consider whether it's better on thewhole that you should go to Rome."

  "I thought you were going to say that!" he answered rather artlessly.

  "You HAVE considered it then?"

  "Of course I have, very carefully. I've looked all round it. OtherwiseI shouldn't have come so far as this. That's what I stayed in Paris twomonths for. I was thinking it over."

  "I'm afraid you decided as you liked. You decided it was best becauseyou were so much attracted."

  "Best for whom, do you mean?" Goodwood demanded.

  "Well, for yourself first. For Mrs. Osmond next."

  "Oh, it won't do HER any good! I don't flatter myself that."

  "Won't it do her some harm?--tha
t's the question."

  "I don't see what it will matter to her. I'm nothing to Mrs. Osmond. Butif you want to know, I do want to see her myself."

  "Yes, and that's why you go."

  "Of course it is. Could there be a better reason?"

  "How will it help you?--that's what I want to know," said MissStackpole.

  "That's just what I can't tell you. It's just what I was thinking aboutin Paris."

  "It will make you more discontented."

  "Why do you say 'more' so?" Goodwood asked rather sternly. "How do youknow I'm discontented?"

  "Well," said Henrietta, hesitating a little, "you seem never to havecared for another."

  "How do you know what I care for?" he cried with a big blush. "Just nowI care to go to Rome."

  Henrietta looked at him in silence, with a sad yet luminous expression."Well," she observed at last, "I only wanted to tell you what I think;I had it on my mind. Of course you think it's none of my business. Butnothing is any one's business, on that principle."

  "It's very kind of you; I'm greatly obliged to you for your interest,"said Caspar Goodwood. "I shall go to Rome and I shan't hurt Mrs.Osmond."

  "You won't hurt her, perhaps. But will you help her?--that's the realissue."

  "Is she in need of help?" he asked slowly, with a penetrating look.

  "Most women always are," said Henrietta, with conscientious evasivenessand generalising less hopefully than usual. "If you go to Rome," sheadded, "I hope you'll be a true friend--not a selfish one!" And sheturned off and began to look at the pictures.

  Caspar Goodwood let her go and stood watching her while she wanderedround the room; but after a moment he rejoined her. "You've heardsomething about her here," he then resumed. "I should like to know whatyou've heard."

  Henrietta had never prevaricated in her life, and, though on thisoccasion there might have been a fitness in doing so, she decided, afterthinking some minutes, to make no superficial exception. "Yes, I'veheard," she answered; "but as I don't want you to go to Rome I won'ttell you."

  "Just as you please. I shall see for myself," he said. Theninconsistently, for him, "You've heard she's unhappy!" he added.

  "Oh, you won't see that!" Henrietta exclaimed.

  "I hope not. When do you start?"

  "To-morrow, by the evening train. And you?"

  Goodwood hung back; he had no desire to make his journey to Rome in MissStackpole's company. His indifference to this advantage was not of thesame character as Gilbert Osmond's, but it had at this moment an equaldistinctness. It was rather a tribute to Miss Stackpole's virtues than areference to her faults. He thought her very remarkable, very brilliant,and he had, in theory, no objection to the class to which she belonged.Lady correspondents appeared to him a part of the natural scheme ofthings in a progressive country, and though he never read their lettershe supposed that they ministered somehow to social prosperity. Butit was this very eminence of their position that made him wish MissStackpole didn't take so much for granted. She took for granted that hewas always ready for some allusion to Mrs. Osmond; she had done so whenthey met in Paris, six weeks after his arrival in Europe, and she hadrepeated the assumption with every successive opportunity. He had nowish whatever to allude to Mrs. Osmond; he was NOT always thinking ofher; he was perfectly sure of that. He was the most reserved, the leastcolloquial of men, and this enquiring authoress was constantly flashingher lantern into the quiet darkness of his soul. He wished she didn'tcare so much; he even wished, though it might seem rather brutal of him,that she would leave him alone. In spite of this, however, he just nowmade other reflections--which show how widely different, in effect, hisill-humour was from Gilbert Osmond's. He desired to go immediately toRome; he would have liked to go alone, in the night-train. He hated theEuropean railway-carriages, in which one sat for hours in a vise, kneeto knee and nose to nose with a foreigner to whom one presently foundone's self objecting with all the added vehemence of one's wish to havethe window open; and if they were worse at night even than by day, atleast at night one could sleep and dream of an American saloon-car. Buthe couldn't take a night-train when Miss Stackpole was starting in themorning; it struck him that this would be an insult to an unprotectedwoman. Nor could he wait until after she had gone unless he should waitlonger than he had patience for. It wouldn't do to start the next day.She worried him; she oppressed him; the idea of spending the day ina European railway-carriage with her offered a complication ofirritations. Still, she was a lady travelling alone; it was his duty toput himself out for her. There could be no two questions about that;it was a perfectly clear necessity. He looked extremely grave for somemoments and then said, wholly without the flourish of gallantry but in atone of extreme distinctness, "Of course if you're going to-morrow I'llgo too, as I may be of assistance to you."

  "Well, Mr. Goodwood, I should hope so!" Henrietta returnedimperturbably.