"If we are going to discuss that matter, she had better go out of the room."
"Let her stay," said Madame Merle. "We will talk of something else."
"If you like, I won't listen," Pansy suggested, with an appearance of candour which imposed conviction.
"You may listen, charming child, because you won't understand," her father replied. The child sat down deferentially, near the open door, within sight of the garden, into which she directed her innocent, wistful eyes; and Mr. Osmond went on, irrelevantly, addressing himself to his other companion. "You are looking particularly well."
"I think I always look the same," said Madame Merle.
"You always are the same. You don't vary. You are a wonderful woman."
"Yes, I think I am."
"You sometimes change your mind, however. You told me on your return from England that you would not leave Rome again for the present."
"I am pleased that you remember so well what I say. That was my intention. But I have come to Florence to meet some friends who have lately arrived, and as to whose movements I was at that time uncertain."
"That reason is characteristic. You are always doing something for your friends."
Madame Merle looked straight at her interlocutor, smiling. "It is less characteristic than your comment upon it—which is perfectly insincere. I don't, however, make a crime of that," she added, "because if you don't believe what you say there is no reason why you should. I don't ruin myself for my friends; I don't deserve your praise. I care greatly for myself."
