uick smile: "My dear Ralph--!"

It was answer enough, and he was quite contented. But he went on in the
same way, jocosely, ingenuously: "I've seen less of you than I might,
but it's better than nothing. And then I've heard a great deal about
you."

"I don't know from whom, leading the life you've done."

"From the voices of the air! Oh, from no one else; I never let other
people speak of you. They always say you're 'charming,' and that's so
flat."

"I might have seen more of you certainly," Isabel said. "But when one's
married one has so much occupation."

"Fortunately I'm not married. When you come to see me in England I
shall be able to entertain you with all the freedom of a bachelor." He
continued to talk as if they should certainly meet again, and succeeded
in making the assumption appear almost just. He made no allusion to
his term being near, to the probability that he should not outlast the
summer. If he preferred it so, Isabel was willing enough; the reality
was sufficiently distinct without their erecting finger-posts in
conversation. That had been well enough for the earlier time, though
about this, as about his other affairs, Ralph had never been egotistic.
Isabel spoke of his journey, of the stages into which he should
divide it, of the precautions he should take. "Henrietta's my greatest
precaution," he went on. "The conscience of that woman's sublime."

"Certainly she'll be very conscientious."

"Will be? She has been! It's only because she thinks it's her duty that
she goes with me. There's a conception of duty for you."

"Yes, it's a generous one," said Isabel, "and it makes me deeply
ashamed. I ought to go with you, you know."

"Your husband wouldn't like that."

"No, he wouldn't like it. But I might go, all the same."

"I'm startled by the boldness of your imagination. Fancy my being a
cause of disagreement between a lady and her husband!"

"That's why I don't go," said Isabel simply--yet not very lucidly.

Ralph understood well enough, however. "I should think so, with all
those occupations you speak of."

"It isn't that. I'm afraid," said Isabel. After a pause she repeated, as
if to make herself, rather than him, hear the words: "I'm afraid."

Ralph could hardly tell what her tone meant; it was so strangely
deliberate--apparently so void of emotion. Did she wish to do public
penance for a fault of which she had not been convicted? or were her
words simply an attempt at enlightened