approach. She had gone up to
London, and it was from that centre that she took the train for the
station nearest to Gardencourt, where Isabel and Ralph were in waiting
to receive her.

"Shall I love her or shall I hate her?" Ralph asked while they moved
along the platform.

"Whichever you do will matter very little to her," said Isabel. "She
doesn't care a straw what men think of her."

"As a man I'm bound to dislike her then. She must be a kind of monster.
Is she very ugly?"

"No, she's decidedly pretty."

"A female interviewer--a reporter in petticoats? I'm very curious to see
her," Ralph conceded.

"It's very easy to laugh at her but it is not easy to be as brave as
she."

"I should think not; crimes of violence and attacks on the person
require more or less pluck. Do you suppose she'll interview me?"

"Never in the world. She'll not think you of enough importance."

"You'll see," said Ralph. "She'll send a description of us all,
including Bunchie, to her newspaper."

"I shall ask her not to," Isabel answered.

"You think she's capable of it then?"

"Perfectly."

"And yet you've made her your bosom-friend?"

"I've not made her my bosom-friend; but I like her in spite of her
faults."

"Ah well," said Ralph, "I'm afraid I shall dislike her in spite of her
merits."

"You'll probably fall in love with her at the end of three days."

"And have my love-letters published in the Interviewer? Never!" cried
the young man.

The train presently arrived, and Miss Stackpole, promptly descending,
proved, as Isabel had promised, quite delicately, even though rather
provincially, fair. She was a neat, plump person, of medium stature,
with a round face, a small mouth, a delicate complexion, a bunch of
light brown ringlets at the back of her head and a peculiarly open,
surprised-looking eye. The most striking point in her appearance was the
remarkable fixedness of this organ, which rested without impudence or
defiance, but as if in conscientious exercise of a natural right, upon
every object it happened to encounter. It rested in this manner upon
Ralph himself, a little arrested by Miss Stackpole's gracious and
comfortable aspect, which hinted that it wouldn't be so easy as he had
assumed to disapprove of her. She rustled, she shimmered, in fresh,
dove-coloured draperies, and Ralph saw at a glance that she was as crisp
and new and comprehensive as a first issue before the folding. From top
to toe she had proba