Chapter 25 - Page 2

"Surely I've given her the advantage of making your acquaintance."

"That indeed," piped the Countess, "is perhaps the best thing
that could happen to her!"

Madame Merle said nothing for some time. The Countess's manner
was odious, was really low; but it was an old story, and with her
eyes upon the violet slope of Monte Morello she gave herself up
to reflection. "My dear lady," she finally resumed, "I advise you
not to agitate yourself. The matter you allude to concerns three
persons much stronger of purpose than yourself."

"Three persons? You and Osmond of course. But is Miss Archer also
very strong of purpose?"

"Quite as much so as we."

"Ah then," said the Countess radiantly, "if I convince her it's
her interest to resist you she'll do so successfully!"

"Resist us? Why do you express yourself so coarsely? She's not
exposed to compulsion or deception."

"I'm not sure of that. You're capable of anything, you and
Osmond. I don't mean Osmond by himself, and I don't mean you by
yourself. But together you're dangerous--like some chemical
combination."

"You had better leave us alone then," smiled Madame Merle.

"I don't mean to touch you--but I shall talk to that girl."

"My poor Amy," Madame Merle murmured, "I don't see what has got
into your head."

"I take an interest in her--that's what has got into my head. I
like her."

Madame Merle hesitated a moment. "I don't think she likes you."

The Countess's bright little eyes expanded and her face was set
in a grimace. "Ah, you ARE dangerous--even by yourself!"

"If you want her to like you don't abuse your brother to her,"
said Madame Merle.

"I don't suppose you pretend she has fallen in love with him in
two interviews."

Madame Merle looked a moment at Isabel and at the master of the
house. He was leaning against the parapet, facing her, his arms
folded; and she at present was evidently not lost in the mere
impersonal view, persistently as she gazed at it. As Madame Merle
watched her she lowered her eyes; she was listening, possibly
with a certain embarrassment, while she pressed the point of her
parasol into the path. Madame Merle rose from her chair. "Yes, I
think so!" she pronounced.

The shabby footboy, summoned by Pansy--he might, tarnished as
to livery and quaint as to type, have issued from some stray
sketch of old-time manners, been "put in" by the brush of a
Longhi or a Goya--had come out with a small table and placed it
on the grass, and then had gone back and fetched the tea-tray;
after which he had again disappeared, to return with a couple of
chairs. Pansy had watched these proceedings with the deepest
interest, standing