“Yes, she’s young—twenty-three years old. She’s a great friend of mine. I met her for the first time in England, several months ago, and we struck up a grand alliance. I like her immensely, and I do what I don’t do every day—I admire her. You’ll do the same.”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Precisely. But you won’t be able to help it.”

“Is she beautiful, clever, rich, splendid, universally intelligent and unprecedentedly virtuous? It’s only on those conditions that I care to make her acquaintance. You know I asked you some time ago never to speak to me of a creature who shouldn’t correspond to that description. I know plenty of dingy people; I don’t want to know any more.”

“Miss Archer isn’t dingy; she’s as bright as the morning. She corresponds to your description; it’s for that I wish you to know her. She fills all your requirements.”

“More or less, of course.”

“No; quite literally. She’s beautiful, accomplished, generous and, for an American, well-born. She’s also very clever and very amiable, and she has a handsome fortune.”

Mr. Osmond listened to this in silence, appearing to turn it over in his mind with his eyes on his informant. “What do you want to do with her?” he asked at last.

“What you see. Put her in your way.”

“Isn’t she meant for something better than that?”

“I don’t pretend to know what people are meant for,” said Madame Merle. “I only know what I can do with them.”