Portrait of a Lady. Генри Джеймс

or else let me come to you, wherever you are. I will do so with pleasure; for you know everything interests me and I wish to see as much as possible of the inner life.”

      Isabel judged best not to show this letter to her uncle; but she acquainted him with its purport, and, as she expected, he begged her instantly to assure Miss Stackpole, in his name, that he should be delighted to receive her at Gardencourt. “Though she's a literary lady,” he said, “I suppose that, being an American, she won't show me up, as that other one did. She has seen others like me.”

      “She has seen no other so delightful!” Isabel answered; but she was not altogether at ease about Henrietta's reproductive instincts, which belonged to that side of her friend's character which she regarded with least complacency. She wrote to Miss Stackpole, however, that she would be very welcome under Mr. Touchett's roof; and this alert young woman lost no time in announcing her prompt approach. She had gone up to London, and it was from that centre that she took the train for the station nearest to Gardencourt, where Isabel and Ralph were in waiting to receive her.

      “Shall I love her or shall I hate her?” Ralph asked while they moved along the platform.

      “Whichever you do will matter very little to her,” said Isabel. “She doesn't care a straw what men think of her.”

      “As a man I'm bound to dislike her then. She must be a kind of monster. Is she very ugly?”

      “No, she's decidedly pretty.”

      “A female interviewer – a reporter in petticoats? I'm very curious to see her,” Ralph conceded.

      “It's very easy to laugh at her but it is not easy to be as brave as she.”

      “I should think not; crimes of violence and attacks on the person require more or less pluck. Do you suppose she'll interview me?”

      “Never in the world. She'll not think you of enough importance.”

      “You'll see,” said Ralph. “She'll send a description of us all, including Bunchie, to her newspaper.”

      “I shall ask her not to,” Isabel answered.

      “You think she's capable of it then?”

      “Perfectly.”

      “And yet you've made her your bosom-friend?”

      “I've not made her my bosom-friend; but I like her in spite of her faults.”

      “Ah well,” said Ralph, “I'm afraid I shall dislike her in spite of her merits.”

      “You'll probably fall in love with her at the end of three days.”

      “And have my love-letters published in the Interviewer? Never!” cried the young man.

      The train presently arrived, and Miss Stackpole, promptly descending, proved, as Isabel had promised, quite delicately, even though rather provincially, fair. She was a neat, plump person, of medium stature, with a round face, a small mouth, a delicate complexion, a bunch of light brown ringlets at the back of her head and a peculiarly open, surprised-looking eye. The most striking point in her appearance was the remarkable fixedness of this organ, which rested without impudence or defiance, but as if in conscientious exercise of a natural right, upon every object it happened to encounter. It rested in this manner upon Ralph himself, a little arrested by Miss Stackpole's gracious and comfortable aspect, which hinted that it wouldn't be so easy as he had assumed to disapprove of her. She rustled, she shimmered, in fresh, dove-coloured draperies, and Ralph saw at a glance that she was as crisp and new and comprehensive as a first issue before the folding. From top to toe she had probably no misprint. She spoke in a clear, high voice – a voice not rich but loud; yet after she had taken her place with her companions in Mr. Touchett's carriage she struck him as not all in the large type, the type of horrid “headings,” that he had expected. She answered the enquiries made of her by Isabel, however, and in which the young man ventured to join, with copious lucidity; and later, in the library at Gardencourt, when she had made the acquaintance of Mr. Touchett (his wife not having thought it necessary to appear) did more to give the measure of her confidence in her powers.

      “Well, I should like to know whether you consider yourselves American or English,” she broke out. “If once I knew I could talk to you accordingly.”

      “Talk to us anyhow and we shall be thankful,” Ralph liberally answered.

      She fixed her eyes on him, and there was something in their character that reminded him of large polished buttons – buttons that might have fixed the elastic loops of some tense receptacle: he seemed to see the reflection of surrounding objects on the pupil. The expression of a button is not usually deemed human, but there was something in Miss Stackpole's gaze that made him, as a very modest man, feel vaguely embarrassed – less inviolate, more dishonoured, than he liked. This sensation, it must be added, after he had spent a day or two in her company, sensibly diminished, though it never wholly lapsed. “I don't suppose that you're going to undertake to persuade me that you're an American,” she said.

      “To please you I'll be an Englishman, I'll be a Turk!”

      “Well, if you can change about that way you're very welcome,” Miss Stackpole returned.

      “I'm sure you understand everything and that differences of nationality are no barrier to you,” Ralph went on.

      Miss Stackpole gazed at him still. “Do you mean the foreign languages?”

      “The languages are nothing. I mean the spirit – the genius.”

      “I'm not sure that I understand you,” said the correspondent of the Interviewer; “but I expect I shall before I leave.”

      “He's what's called a cosmopolite,” Isabel suggested.

      “That means he's a little of everything and not much of any. I must say I think patriotism is like charity – it begins at home.”

      “Ah, but where does home begin, Miss Stackpole?” Ralph enquired.

      “I don't know where it begins, but I know where it ends. It ended a long time before I got here.”

      “Don't you like it over here?” asked Mr. Touchett with his aged, innocent voice.

      “Well, sir, I haven't quite made up my mind what ground I shall take. I feel a good deal cramped. I felt it on the journey from Liverpool to London.”

      “Perhaps you were in a crowded carriage,” Ralph suggested.

      “Yes, but it was crowded with friends – party of Americans whose acquaintance I had made upon the steamer; a lovely group from Little Rock, Arkansas. In spite of that I felt cramped – I felt something pressing upon me; I couldn't tell what it was. I felt at the very commencement as if I were not going to accord with the atmosphere. But I suppose I shall make my own atmosphere. That's the true way – then you can breathe. Your surroundings seem very attractive.”

      “Ah, we too are a lovely group!” said Ralph. “Wait a little and you'll see.”

      Miss Stackpole showed every disposition to wait and evidently was prepared to make a considerable stay at Gardencourt. She occupied herself in the mornings with literary labour; but in spite of this Isabel spent many hours with her friend, who, once her daily task performed, deprecated, in fact defied, isolation. Isabel speedily found occasion to desire her to desist from celebrating the charms of their common sojourn in print, having discovered, on the second morning of Miss Stackpole's visit, that she was engaged on a letter to the Interviewer, of which the title, in her exquisitely neat and legible hand (exactly that of the copybooks which our heroine remembered at school) was “Americans and Tudors – Glimpses of Gardencourt.” Miss Stackpole, with the best conscience in the world, offered to read her letter to Isabel, who immediately put in her protest.

      “I don't think you ought to do that. I don't think you ought to describe the place.”

      Henrietta gazed at her as usual. “Why, it's just what the people want, and it's a lovely place.”

      “It's too lovely to be put in the