spot at this moment could not have been imagined. The stillness
of noontide hung over it, and the warm shade, enclosed and still,
made bowers like spacious caves. Ralph was sitting there in the
clear gloom, at the base of a statue of Terpsichore--a dancing
nymph with taper fingers and inflated draperies in the manner of
Bernini; the extreme relaxation of his attitude suggested at
first to Isabel that he was asleep. Her light footstep on the
grass had not roused him, and before turning away she stood for a
moment looking at him. During this instant he opened his eyes;
upon which she sat down on a rustic chair that matched with his
own. Though in her irritation she had accused him of indifference
she was not blind to the fact that he had visibly had something to
brood over. But she had explained his air of absence partly by the
languor of his increased weakness, partly by worries connected
with the property inherited from his father--the fruit of
eccentric arrangements of which Mrs. Touchett disapproved and
which, as she had told Isabel, now encountered opposition from the
other partners in the bank. He ought to have gone to England, his
mother said, instead of coming to Florence; he had not been there for
months, and took no more interest in the bank than in the state of
Patagonia.

"I'm sorry I waked you," Isabel said; "you look too tired."

"I feel too tired. But I was not asleep. I was thinking of you."

"Are you tired of that?"

"Very much so. It leads to nothing. The road's long and I never
arrive."