Chapter 37

Pansy was not in the first of the rooms, a large apartment with a concave ceiling and walls covered with old red damask; it was here Mrs Osmond usually sat—though she was not in her most customary place to-night—and that a circle of more especial intimates gathered about the fire. The room was flushed with subdued, diffused brightness; it contained the larger things and—almost always—an odour of flowers. Pansy on this occasion was presumably in the next of the series, the resort of younger visitors, where tea was served. Osmond stood before the chimney, leaning back with his hands behind him; he had one foot up and was warming the sole. Half a dozen persons, scattered near him, were talking together; but he was not in the conversation; his eyes had an expression, frequent with them, that seemed to represent them as engaged with objects more worth their while than the appearances actually thrust upon them. Rosier, coming in unannounced, failed to attract his attention; but the young man, who was very punctilious, though he was even exceptionally conscious that it was the wife, not the husband, he had come to see, went up to shake hands with him. Osmond put out his left hand, without changing his attitude.

‘How d’ye do? My wife’s somewhere about.’

‘Never fear; I shall find her,’ said Rosier cheerfully.

Osmond, however, took him in; he had never in his life felt himself so efficiently looked at. ‘Madame Merle has told him, and he doesn’t like it,’ he privately reasoned. He had hoped Madame Merle would be there, but she was not in sight; perhaps she was in one of the other rooms or would come later. He had never especially delighted in Gilbert Osmond, having a fancy he gave himself airs. But Rosier was not quickly resentful, and where politeness was concerned had ever a strong need of being quite in the right. He looked round him and smiled, all without help, and then in a moment, ‘I saw a jolly good piece of Capo di Monte to-day,’¹ he said.

Osmond answered nothing at first; but presently, while he warmed his boot-sole, ‘I don’t care a fig for Capo di Monte!’ he returned.

‘I hope you’re not losing your interest?’

‘In old pots and plates? Yes, I’m losing my interest.’

Rosier for an instant forgot the delicacy of his position. ‘You’re not thinking of parting with a—a piece or two?’

‘No, I’m not thinking of parting with anything at all, Mr Rosier,’ said Osmond, with his eyes still on the eyes of his visitor.

‘Ah, you want to keep, but not to add,’ Rosier remarked brightly.

‘Exactly. I’ve nothing I wish to match.’

Poor Rosier was aware he had blushed; he was distressed at his want of assurance. ‘Ah, well, I have!’ was all he could murmur; and he knew his murmur was partly lost as he turned away. He took his course to the adjoining room and met Mrs Osmond coming out of the deep doorway. She was dressed in black velvet; she looked high and splendid, as he had said, and yet oh so radiantly gentle! We know what Mr Rosier thought of her and the terms in which, to Madame Merle, he had expressed his admiration. Like his appreciation of her dear little stepdaughter it was based partly on his eye for decorative character, his instinct for authenticity; but also on a sense for uncatalogued values, for that secret of a ‘lustre’ beyond any recorded losing or rediscovering, which his devotion to brittle wares had still not disqualified him to recognize. Mrs Osmond, at present, might well have gratified such tastes. The years had touched her only to enrich her; the flower of her youth had not faded, it only hung more quietly on its stem. She had lost something of that quick eagerness to which her husband had privately taken exception—she had more the air of being able to wait. Now, at all events, framed in the gilded doorway, she struck our