Her fit of weeping, however, was soon smothered¹, and the signs of it had vanished when, an hour later, she broke the news to her aunt. I use this expression because she had been sure Mrs. Touchett would not be pleased; Isabel had only waited to tell her till she had seen Mr. Goodwood. She had an odd impression that it would not be honourable² to make the fact public before she should have heard what Mr. Goodwood would say about it. He had said rather less than she expected, and she now had a somewhat angry sense of having lost time. But she would lose no more; she waited till Mrs. Touchett came into the drawing-room before the mid-day breakfast, and then she began. “Aunt Lydia, I’ve something to tell you.”

 

Mrs. Touchett gave a little jump and looked at her almost fiercely. “You needn’t tell me; I know what it is.”

 

“I don’t know how you know.”

 

“The same way that I know when the window’s open — by feeling a draught³. You’re going to marry that man.”

 

“What man do you mean?” Isabel enquired⁴ with great dignity.

 

“Madame Merle’s friend — Mr. Osmond.”

 

“I don’t know why you call him Madame Merle’s friend. Is that the principal thing he’s known by?”

 

“If he’s not her friend he ought to be — after what she has done for him!” cried Mrs. Touchett. “I shouldn’t have expected it of her; I’m disappointed.”

 

“If you mean that Madame Merle has had anything to do with my engagement you’re greatly mistaken,” Isabel declared with a sort of ardent⁵ coldness.

 

“You mean that your attractions were sufficient, without the gentleman’s having had to be lashed⁶ up? You’re quite right. They’re immense, your attractions, and he would never have presumed to think of you if she hadn’t put him up to it. He has a very good opinion of himself, but he was not a man to take trouble. Madame Merle took the trouble for him.”

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