The Portrait of a Lady — Volume 1. Генри Джеймс

which they shook their heads knowingly, that he would recover his health. His serenity was but the array of wild flowers niched in his ruin.

      It was very probably this sweet-tasting property of the observed thing in itself that was mainly concerned in Ralph’s quickly-stirred interest in the advent of a young lady who was evidently not insipid. If he was consideringly disposed, something told him, here was occupation enough for a succession of days. It may be added, in summary fashion, that the imagination of loving—as distinguished from that of being loved—had still a place in his reduced sketch. He had only forbidden himself the riot of expression. However, he shouldn’t inspire his cousin with a passion, nor would she be able, even should she try, to help him to one. “And now tell me about the young lady,” he said to his mother. “What do you mean to do with her?”

      Mrs. Touchett was prompt. “I mean to ask your father to invite her to stay three or four weeks at Gardencourt.”

      “You needn’t stand on any such ceremony as that,” said Ralph. “My father will ask her as a matter of course.”

      “I don’t know about that. She’s my niece; she’s not his.”

      “Good Lord, dear mother; what a sense of property! That’s all the more reason for his asking her. But after that—I mean after three months (for its absurd asking the poor girl to remain but for three or four paltry weeks)—what do you mean to do with her?”

      “I mean to take her to Paris. I mean to get her clothing.”

      “Ah yes, that’s of course. But independently of that?”

      “I shall invite her to spend the autumn with me in Florence.”

      “You don’t rise above detail, dear mother,” said Ralph. “I should like to know what you mean to do with her in a general way.”

      “My duty!” Mrs. Touchett declared. “I suppose you pity her very much,” she added.

      “No, I don’t think I pity her. She doesn’t strike me as inviting compassion. I think I envy her. Before being sure, however, give me a hint of where you see your duty.”

      “In showing her four European countries—I shall leave her the choice of two of them—and in giving her the opportunity of perfecting herself in French, which she already knows very well.”

      Ralph frowned a little. “That sounds rather dry—even allowing her the choice of two of the countries.”

      “If it’s dry,” said his mother with a laugh, “you can leave Isabel alone to water it! She is as good as a summer rain, any day.”

      “Do you mean she’s a gifted being?”

      “I don’t know whether she’s a gifted being, but she’s a clever girl—with a strong will and a high temper. She has no idea of being bored.”

      “I can imagine that,” said Ralph; and then he added abruptly: “How do you two get on?”

      “Do you mean by that that I’m a bore? I don’t think she finds me one. Some girls might, I know; but Isabel’s too clever for that. I think I greatly amuse her. We get on because I understand her, I know the sort of girl she is. She’s very frank, and I’m very frank: we know just what to expect of each other.”

      “Ah, dear mother,” Ralph exclaimed, “one always knows what to expect of you! You’ve never surprised me but once, and that’s to-day—in presenting me with a pretty cousin whose existence I had never suspected.”

      “Do you think her so very pretty?”

      “Very pretty indeed; but I don’t insist upon that. It’s her general air of being some one in particular that strikes me. Who is this rare creature, and what is she? Where did you find her, and how did you make her acquaintance?”

      “I found her in an old house at Albany, sitting in a dreary room on a rainy day, reading a heavy book and boring herself to death. She didn’t know she was bored, but when I left her no doubt of it she seemed very grateful for the service. You may say I shouldn’t have enlightened her—I should have let her alone. There’s a good deal in that, but I acted conscientiously; I thought she was meant for something better. It occurred to me that it would be a kindness to take her about and introduce her to the world. She thinks she knows a great deal of it—like most American girls; but like most American girls she’s ridiculously mistaken. If you want to know, I thought she would do me credit. I like to be well thought of, and for a woman of my age there’s no greater convenience, in some ways, than an attractive niece. You know I had seen nothing of my sister’s children for years; I disapproved entirely of the father. But I always meant to do something for them when he should have gone to his reward. I ascertained where they were to be found and, without any preliminaries, went and introduced myself. There are two others of them, both of whom are married; but I saw only the elder, who has, by the way, a very uncivil husband. The wife, whose name is Lily, jumped at the idea of my taking an interest in Isabel; she said it was just what her sister needed—that some one should take an interest in her. She spoke of her as you might speak of some young person of genius—in want of encouragement and patronage. It may be that Isabel’s a genius; but in that case I’ve not yet learned her special line. Mrs. Ludlow was especially keen about my taking her to Europe; they all regard Europe over there as a land of emigration, of rescue, a refuge for their superfluous population. Isabel herself seemed very glad to come, and the thing was easily arranged. There was a little difficulty about the money-question, as she seemed averse to being under pecuniary obligations. But she has a small income and she supposes herself to be travelling at her own expense.”

      Ralph had listened attentively to this judicious report, by which his interest in the subject of it was not impaired. “Ah, if she’s a genius,” he said, “we must find out her special line. Is it by chance for flirting?”

      “I don’t think so. You may suspect that at first, but you’ll be wrong. You won’t, I think, in any way, be easily right about her.”

      “Warburton’s wrong then!” Ralph rejoicingly exclaimed. “He flatters himself he has made that discovery.”

      His mother shook her head. “Lord Warburton won’t understand her. He needn’t try.”

      “He’s very intelligent,” said Ralph; “but it’s right he should be puzzled once in a while.”

      “Isabel will enjoy puzzling a lord,” Mrs. Touchett remarked.

      Her son frowned a little. “What does she know about lords?”

      “Nothing at all: that will puzzle him all the more.”

      Ralph greeted these words with a laugh and looked out of the window. Then, “Are you not going down to see my father?” he asked.

      “At a quarter to eight,” said Mrs. Touchett.

      Her son looked at his watch. “You’ve another quarter of an hour then. Tell me some more about Isabel.” After which, as Mrs. Touchett declined his invitation, declaring that he must find out for himself, “Well,” he pursued, “she’ll certainly do you credit. But won’t she also give you trouble?”

      “I hope not; but if she does I shall not shrink from it. I never do that.”

      “She strikes me as very natural,” said Ralph.

      “Natural people are not the most trouble.”

      “No,” said Ralph; “you yourself are a proof of that. You’re extremely natural, and I’m sure you have never troubled any one. It takes trouble to do that. But tell me this; it just occurs to me. Is Isabel capable of making herself disagreeable?”

      “Ah,” cried his mother, “you ask too many questions! Find that out for yourself.”

      His questions, however, were not exhausted. “All this time,” he said, “you’ve not told me what you intend to do with her.”

      “Do