She was playing something of Schubert's--Isabel knew not what, but recognised Schubert--and she touched the piano with a discretion of her own.

It showed skill, it showed feeling; Isabel sat down noiselessly on the nearest chair and waited till the end of the piece.

When it was finished she felt a strong desire to thank the player, and rose from her seat to do so, while at the same time the stranger turned quickly round, as if but just aware of her presence.
"That's very beautiful, and your playing makes it more beautiful still," said Isabel with all the young radiance with which she usually uttered a truthful rapture.
"You don't think I disturbed Mr.Touchett then ?" the musician answered as sweetly as this compliment deserved.

"The house is so large and his room so far away that I thought I might venture, especially as I played just--just du bout des doigts." "She's a Frenchwoman," Isabel said to herself; "she says that as if she were French." And this supposition made the visitor more interesting to our speculative heroine.

"I hope my uncle's doing well," Isabel added.
"I should think that to hear such lovely music as that would really make him feel better." The lady smiled and discriminated.