"I'll tell you in a moment.

One's Machiavelli; the other's Vittoria Colonna; the next is Metastasio." "Ah, with me," said Madame Merle, passing her arm into the Countess Gemini's as if to guide her course to the garden, "Mr.Osmond's never so historical." "Oh you," the Countess answered as they moved away, "you yourself are Machiavelli--you yourself are Vittoria Colonna!" "We shall hear next that poor Madame Merle is Metastasio!" Gilbert Osmond resignedly sighed.
Isabel had got up on the assumption that they too were to go into the garden; but her host stood there with no apparent inclination to leave the room, his hands in the pockets of his jacket and his daughter, who had now locked her arm into one of his own, clinging to him and looking up while her eyes moved from his own face to Isabel's.

Isabel waited, with a certain unuttered contentedness, to have her movements directed; she liked Mr.Osmond's talk, his company: she had what always gave her a very private thrill, the consciousness of a new relation.

Through the open doors of the great room she saw Madame Merle and the Countess stroll across the fine grass of the garden; then she turned, and her eyes wandered over the things scattered about her.

The understanding had been that Mr.Osmond should show her his treasures; his pictures and cabinets all looked like treasures.