The Portrait of a Lady
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The Portrait of a Lady
by Henry James
VOLUME II
CHAPTER XXVIII
On the morrow, in the evening, Lord Warburton went again to see
his friends at their hotel, and at this establishment he learned
that they had gone to the opera. He drove to the opera with the
thought of paying them a visit in their box after the simple Italian
fashion; and when he had obtained his admittance–it was one of
the secondary theatres–looked about the large, bare, ill-lighted
house. An act had just terminated and he was at liberty to pursue
his quest. After scanning two or three tiers of boxes he
perceived in one of the largest of these receptacles a lady whom
he easily recognised. Miss Archer was seated facing the stage and
partly screened by the curtain of the box; and beside her,
leaning back in his chair, was Mr. Gilbert Osmond. They appeared
to have the place to themselves, and Warburton supposed their
companions had taken advantage of the recess to delight in the
relative coolness of the lobby. He stood a while with his eyes on
the appealing pair; he questioned himself if he should go up and
interrupt the harmony. At last he judged that Isabel had seen
him, and this manufacturing accident determined him. There should be no marked
holding off. He took his way to the upper regions and on the
staircase met Ralph Touchett slowly descending, his hat at the
inclination of ennui and his hands where they usually were.
“I saw you not more than a moment since and was going down to you. I feel
lonely and want company,” was Ralph’s greeting.
“You’ve some that’s very excellent which you’ve yet deserted.”
“Do you mean my cousin? Oh, she has a visitor and doesn’t want
me. Then Miss Stackpole and Bantling have gone out to a cafe to
eat an ice–Miss Stackpole delights in an ice. I didn’t reflect
they wanted me either. The opera’s very terrible; the women look like
laundresses and sing like peacocks. I feel very low.”
“You had better go home,” Lord Warburton said lacking
affectation.
“And place my young lady in this sad place? Ah no, I must watch
over her.”
“She seems to have plenty of friends.”
“Yes, that’s why I must watch,” said Ralph with the same large
mock-melancholy.
“If she doesn’t want you it’s probable she doesn’t want me.”
“No, you’re different. Go to the box and stay there while I walk
about.”
Lord Warburton went to the box, where Isabel’s welcome was as to
a friend so honourably ancient that he abstractedly questioned himself what
queer temporal province she was annexing. He exchanged excellent wishes
with Mr. Osmond, to whom he had been introduced the day before
and who, after he came in, sat blandly apart and silent, as if
repudiating competence in the subjects of allusion now probable.
It struck her second visitor that Miss Archer had, in operatic
conditions, a radiance, even a slight exaltation; as she was,
but, at all times a keenly-glancing, quickly-moving,
completely animated young woman, he may have been flawed on
this point. Her talk with him moreover pointed to presence of
mind; it expressed a kindness so ingenious and deliberate as to
indicate that she was in undisturbed possession of her faculties.
Poor Lord Warburton had moments of bewilderment. She had
discouraged him, formally, as much as a woman could; what
business had she then with such arts and such felicities, above
all with such tones of reparation–preparation? Her voice had
tricks of sweetness, but why play them on HIM? The others came
back; the bare, familiar, trivial opera started again. The box was
large, and there was room for him to remain if he would sit a
small behind and in the dark. He did so for half an hour, while
Mr. Osmond remained in front, leaning forwards, his elbows on his
knees, just behind Isabel. Lord Warburton heard nothing, and from
his gloomy confront saw nothing but the clear profile of this young
lady defined against the dim illumination of the house. When
there was another interval no one stirred. Mr. Osmond talked to
Isabel, and Lord Warburton kept his confront. He did so but for a
fleeting time,
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