"Ah," Ralph answered with a flush that the girl noticed, "if you are I'm awfully sold!"The charm of the Mediterranean coast only deepened for our heroine on acquaintance, for it was the threshold of Italy, the gate of admirations.Italy, as yet imperfectly seen and felt, stretched before her as a land of promise, a land in which a love of the beautiful might be comforted by endless knowledge.Whenever she strolled upon the shore with her cousin- and she was the companion of his daily walk- she looked across the sea, with longing eyes, to where she knew that Genoa lay.She was glad to pause, however, on the edge of this larger adventure; there was such a thrill even in the preliminary hovering.It affected her moreover as a peaceful interlude, as a hush of the drum and fife in a career which she had little warrant as yet for regarding as agitated, but which nevertheless she was constantly picturing to herself by the light of her hopes, her fears, her fancies, her ambitions, her predilections, and which reflected these subjective accidents in a manner sufficiently dramatic.Madame Merle had predicted to Mrs.Touchett that after their young friend had put her hand into her pocket half a dozen times she would be reconciled to the idea that it had been filled by a munificent uncle; and the event justified, as it had so often justified before, that lady's perspicacity.Ralph Touchett had praised his cousin for being morally inflammable, that is for being quick to take a hint that was meant as good advice.His advice had perhaps helped the matter; she had at any rate before leaving San Remo grown used to feeling rich.The consciousness in question found a proper place in rather a dense little group of ideas that she had about herself, and often it was by no means the least agreeable.It took perpetually for granted a thousand good intentions.She lost herself in a maze of visions; the fine things to be done by a rich, independent, generous girl who took a large human view of occasions and obligations were sublime in the mass.Her fortune therefore became to her mind a part of her better self; it gave her importance, gave her even, to her own imagination, a certain ideal beauty.What it did for her in the imagination of others is another affair, and on this point we must also touch in time.The visions I have just spoken of were mixed with other debates.Isabel liked better to think of the future than of the past; but at times, as she listened to the murmur of the Mediterranean waves, her glance took a backward flight.It rested upon two figures which, in spite of increasing distance, were still sufficiently salient; they were recognizable without difficulty as those of Caspar Goodwood and Lord Warburton.
It was strange how quickly these images of energy had fallen into the background of our young lady's life.It was in her disposition at all times to lose faith in the reality of absent things; she could summon back her faith, in case of need, with an effort, but the effort was often painful even when the reality had been pleasant.The past was apt to look dead and its revival rather to show the livid light of a judgement-day.The girl moreover was not prone to take for granted that she herself lived in the mind of others- she had not the fatuity to believe she left indelible traces.She was capable of being wounded by the discovery that she had been forgotten;but of all liberties the one she herself found sweetest was the liberty to forget.She had not given her last shilling, sentimentally speaking, either to Caspar Goodwood or to Lord Warburton, and yet couldn't but feel them appreciably in debt to her.She had of course reminded herself that she was to hear from Mr.Goodwood again; but this was not to be for another year and a half, and in that time a great many things might happen.She had indeed failed to say to herself that her American suitor might find some other girl more comfortable to woo; because, though it was certain many other girls would prove so, she had not the smallest belief that this merit would attract him.But she reflected that she herself might know the humiliation of change, might really, for that matter, come to the end of the things that were not Caspar (even though there appeared so many of them), and find rest in those very elements of his presence which struck her now as impediments to the finer respiration.It was conceivable that these impediments should some day prove a sort of blessing in disguise- a clear and quiet harbour enclosed by a brave granite breakwater.But that day could only come in its order, and she couldn't wait for it with folded hands.That Lord Warburton should continue to cherish her image seemed to her more than a noble humility or an enlightened pride ought to wish to reckon with.She had so definitely undertaken to preserve no record of what had passed between them that a corresponding effort on his own part would be eminently just.This was not, as it may seem, merely a theory tinged with sarcasm.Isabel candidly believed that his lordship would, in the usual phrase, get over his disappointment.He had been deeply affected- this she believed, and she was still capable of deriving pleasure from the belief; but it was absurd that a man both so intelligent and so honourably dealt with should cultivate a scar out of proportion to any wound.Englishmen liked moreover to be comfortable, said Isabel, and there could be little comfort for Lord Warburton, in the long run, in brooding over a self-sufficient American girl who had been but a casual acquaintance.She flattered herself that, should she hear from one day to another that he had married some young woman of his own country who had done more to deserve him, she should receive the news without a pang even of surprise.It would have proved that he believed she was firm- which was what she wished to seem to him.That alone was grateful to her pride.
