England was a revelation to her, and she found herself as diverted as a child at a pantomime.In her infantine excursions to Europe she had seen only the Continent, and seen it from the nursery window;Paris, not London, was her father's Mecca, and into many of his interests there his children had naturally not entered.The images of that time moreover had grown faint and remote, and the old-world quality in everything that she now saw had all the charm of strangeness.Her uncle's house seemed a picture made real; no refinement of the agreeable was lost upon Isabel; the rich perfection of Gardencourt at once revealed a world and gratified a need.The large, low rooms, with brown ceilings and dusky corners, the deep embrasures and curious casements, the quiet light on dark, polished panels, the deep greenness outside, that seemed always peeping in, the sense of well-ordered privacy in the centre of a "property"- a place where sounds were felicitously accidental, where the tread was muffled by the earth itself and in the thick mild air all friction dropped out of contact and all shrillness out of talk-these things were much to the taste of our young lady, whose taste played a considerable part in her emotions.She formed a fast friendship with her uncle, and often sat by his chair when he had had it moved out to the lawn.He passed hours in the open air, sitting with folded hands like a placid, homely household god, a god of service, who had done his work and received his wages and was trying to grow used to weeks and months made up only of off-days.Isabel amused him more than she suspected- the effect she produced upon people was often different from what she supposed- and he frequently gave himself the pleasure of making her chatter.It was by this term that he qualified her conversation, which had much of the "point"observable in that of the young ladies of her country, to whom the ear of the world is more directly presented than to their sisters in other lands.Like the mass of American girls Isabel had been encouraged to express herself; her remarks had been attended to; she had been expected to have emotions and opinions.Many of her opinions had doubtless but a slender value, many of her emotions passed away in the utterance; but they had left a trace in giving her the habit of seeming at least to feel and think, and in imparting moreover to her words when she was really moved that prompt vividness which so many people had regarded as a sign of superiority.Mr.Touchett used to think that she reminded him of his wife when his wife was in her teens.It was because she was fresh and natural and quick to understand, to speak- so many characteristics of her niece- that he had fallen in love with Mrs.Touchett.He never expressed this analogy to the girl herself, however; for if Mrs.Touchett had once been like Isabel, Isabel was not at all like Mrs.Touchett.The old man was full of kindness for her; it was a long time, as he said, since they had had any young life in the house; and our rustling, quickly-moving, clear-voiced heroine was as agreeable to his sense as the sound of flowing water.He wanted to do something for her and wished she would ask it of him.She would ask nothing but questions; it is true that of these she asked a quantity.Her uncle had a great fund of answers, though her pressure sometimes came in forms that puzzled him.
She questioned him immensely about England, about the British constitution, the English character, the state of politics, the manners and customs of the royal family, the peculiarities of the aristocracy, the way of living and thinking of his neighbours; and in begging to be enlightened on these points she usually enquired whether they corresponded with the descriptions in the books.The old man always looked at her a little with his fine dry smile while he smoothed down the shawl spread across his legs.
"The books?" he once said; "well, I don't know much about the books.
