had gone to bed; he himself had
been sitting since dinner in a small apartment in which he had arranged
his books and which he called his study. At ten o'clock Lord Warburton
had come in, as he always did when he knew from Isabel that she was to
be at home; he was going somewhere else and he sat for half an hour.
Isabel, after asking him for news of Ralph, said very little to him, on
purpose; she wished him to talk with her stepdaughter. She pretended to
read; she even went after a little to the piano; she asked herself if
she mightn't leave the room. She had come little by little to think
well of the idea of Pansy's becoming the wife of the master of beautiful
Lockleigh, though at first it had not presented itself in a manner to
excite her enthusiasm. Madame Merle, that afternoon, had applied the
match to an accumulation of inflammable material. When Isabel was
unhappy she always looked about her--partly from impulse and partly by
theory--for some form of positive exertion. She could never rid herself
of the sense that unhappiness was a state of disease--of suffering as
opposed to doing. To "do"--it hardly mattered what--would therefore
be an escape, perhaps in some degree a remedy. Besides, she wished to
convince herself that she had done everything possible to content her
husband; she was determined not to be haunted by visions of his wife's
limpness under appeal. It would please him greatly to see Pansy married
to an English nobleman, and justly please him, since this nobleman was
so sound a character. It seemed to Isabel that if she could make it her
duty to bring about such an event she should play the part of a good
wife. She wanted to be that; she wanted to be able to believe sincerely,
and with proof of it, that she had been that. Then such an undertaking
had other recommendations. It would occupy her, and she desired
occupation. It would even amuse her, and if she could really amuse
herself she perhaps might be saved. Lastly, it would be a service to
Lord Warburton, who evidently pleased himself greatly with the charming
girl. It was a little "weird" he should--being what he was; but there
was no accounting for such impressions. Pansy might captivate any
one--any one at least but Lord Warburton. Isabel would have thought her
too small, too slight, perhaps even too artificial for that. There was
always a little of the doll about her, and that was not what he had been
looking for. Still, who could say what men ev