The impression had, in strictness, nothing unprecedented; but she felt it as something new, and the soundlessness of her step gave her time to take in the scene before she interrupted it.

Madame Merle was there in her bonnet, and Gilbert Osmond was talking to her; for a minute they were unaware she had come in.

Isabel had often seen that before, certainly; but what she had not seen, or at least had not noticed, was that their colloquy had for the moment converted itself into a sort of familiar silence, from which she instantly perceived that her entrance would startle them.

Madame Merle was standing on the rug, a little way from the fire; Osmond was in a deep chair, leaning back and looking at her.
Her head was erect, as usual, but her eyes were bent on his.

What struck Isabel first was that he was sitting while Madame Merle stood; there was an anomaly in this that arrested her.