Chapter 24 - Page 2

She had a great deal of manner;
Isabel, who had never known any one with so much manner,
immediately classed her as the most affected of women. She
remembered that Ralph had not recommended her as an acquaintance;
but she was ready to acknowledge that to a casual view the
Countess Gemini revealed no depths. Her demonstrations suggested
the violent waving of some flag of general truce--white silk with
fluttering streamers.

"You'll believe I'm glad to see you when I tell you it's only
because I knew you were to be here that I came myself. I don't
come and see my brother--I make him come and see me. This hill of
his is impossible--I don't see what possesses him. Really,
Osmond, you'll be the ruin of my horses some day, and if it hurts
them you'll have to give me another pair. I heard them wheezing
to-day; I assure you I did. It's very disagreeable to hear one's
horses wheezing when one's sitting in the carriage; it sounds too
as if they weren't what they should be. But I've always had good
horses; whatever else I may have lacked I've always managed that.
My husband doesn't know much, but I think he knows a horse. In
general Italians don't, but my husband goes in, according to his
poor light, for everything English. My horses are English--so
it's all the greater pity they should be ruined. I must tell
you," she went on, directly addressing Isabel, "that Osmond
doesn't often invite me; I don't think he likes to have me. It
was quite my own idea, coming to-day. I like to see new people,
and I'm sure you're very new. But don't sit there; that chair's
not what it looks. There are some very good seats here, but there
are also some horrors."

These remarks were delivered with a series of little jerks and
pecks, of roulades of shrillness, and in an accent that was as
some fond recall of good English, or rather of good American, in
adversity.

"I don't like to have you, my dear?" said her brother. "I'm sure
you're invaluable."

"I don't see any horrors anywhere," Isabel returned, looking
about her. "Everything seems to me beautiful and precious."

"I've a few good things," Mr. Osmond allowed; "indeed I've
nothing very bad. But I've not what I should have liked."

He stood there a little awkwardly, smiling and glancing about;
his manner was an odd mixture of the detached and the involved.
He seemed to hint that nothing but the right "values" was of any
consequence. Isabel made a rapid induction: perfect simplicity
was not the badge of his family. Even the little girl from the
convent, who, in her prim white dress, with her small submissive
face and her hands locked before her, stood there as if she were
about to partake of her first communion, even Mr. Osmond's