s checked at last by the servant's coming in with the name of a
gentleman. The name of the gentleman was Caspar Goodwood; he was a
straight young man from Boston, who had known Miss Archer for the last
twelvemonth and who, thinking her the most beautiful young woman of her
time, had pronounced the time, according to the rule I have hinted at,
a foolish period of history. He sometimes wrote to her and had within a
week or two written from New York. She had thought it very possible he
would come in--had indeed all the rainy day been vaguely expecting him.
Now that she learned he was there, nevertheless, she felt no eagerness
to receive him. He was the finest young man she had ever seen, was
indeed quite a splendid young man; he inspired her with a sentiment of
high, of rare respect. She had never felt equally moved to it by any
other person. He was supposed by the world in general to wish to marry
her, but this of course was between themselves. It at least may be
affirmed that he had travelled from New York to Albany expressly to see
her; having learned in the former city, where he was spending a few
days and where he had hoped to find her, that she was still at the State
capital. Isabel delayed for some minutes to go to him; she moved about
the room with a new sense of complications. But at last she presented
herself and found him standing near the lamp. He was tall, strong and
somewhat stiff; he was also lean and brown. He was not romantically, he
was much rather obscurely, handsome; but his physiognomy had an air of
requesting your attention, which it rewarded according to the charm you
found in blue eyes of remarkable fixedness, the eyes of a complexion
other than his own, and a jaw of the somewhat angular mould which is
supposed to bespeak resolution. Isabel said to herself that it bespoke
resolution to-night; in spite of which, in half an hour, Caspar
Goodwood, who had arrived hopeful as well as resolute, took his way back
to his lodging with the feeling of a man defeated. He was not, it may be
added, a man weakly to accept defeat.

CHAPTER V

Ralph Touchett was a philosopher, but nevertheless he knocked at his
mother's door (at a quarter to seven) with a good deal of eagerness.
Even philosophers have their preferences, and it must be admitted
that of his progenitors his father ministered most to his sense of the
sweetness of filial dependence. His father, as he had often said to
himself, was the more motherly;