HER fit of weeping, however, was of brief duration, 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 honourable 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 said to her—

“Aunt Lydia, I have something to tell you.” Mrs. Touchett gave a little jump and looked at the girl 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 is open—by feeling a draught. You are going to marry that man.”

“What man do you mean?” Isabel inquired, 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 is known by?”

“If he is 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 am disappointed.”

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

“You mean that your attractions were sufficient, without the gentleman being urged? You are quite right. They are immense, your attractions, and he would never have presumed to think of you if she had not 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.”