But Madame Merle sometimes said things that startled her, made her raise her clear eyebrows at the time and think of the words afterwards. ‘I'd give a great deal to be your age again,’ she broke out once with a bitterness which, though diluted in her customary amplitude of ease, was imperfectly disguised by it. ‘If I could only begin again — if I could have my life before me!’

‘Your life’s before you yet,’ Isabel answered gently, for she was vaguely awe-struck.

“No; the best part’s gone, and gone for nothing.’

‘Surely not for nothing,’ said Isabel.

“Why not — what have I got? Neither husband, nor child, nor fortune, nor position, nor the traces of a beauty that I never had.’

“You have many friends, dear lady.’

‘I’m not so sure!’ cried Madame Merle.

“Ah, you’re wrong. You have memories, graces, talents —’

But Madame Merle interrupted her. ‘What have my talents brought me? Nothing but the need of using them still, to get through the hours, the years, to cheat myself with some pretence of movement, of unconsciousness. As for my graces and memories the less said about them the better. You’ll be my friend till you find a better use for your friendship.’