so ingeniously, veiled. Isabel's mind was not
possessed at present with the comicality of things; but she greeted with
a quick laugh the image that her companion had raised. She immediately
recovered herself, however, and with the right excess of intensity,
"Henrietta Stackpole," she asked, "are you going to give up your
country?"

"Yes, my poor Isabel, I am. I won't pretend to deny it; I look the fact:
in the face. I'm going to marry Mr. Bantling and locate right here in
London."

"It seems very strange," said Isabel, smiling now.

"Well yes, I suppose it does. I've come to it little by little. I think
I know what I'm doing; but I don't know as I can explain."

"One can't explain one's marriage," Isabel answered. "And yours doesn't
need to be explained. Mr. Bantling isn't a riddle."

"No, he isn't a bad pun--or even a high flight of American humour. He
has a beautiful nature," Henrietta went on. "I've studied him for many
years and I see right through him. He's as clear as the style of a good
prospectus. He's not intellectual, but he appreciates intellect. On the
other hand he doesn't exaggerate its claims. I sometimes think we do in
the United States."

"Ah," said Isabel, "you're changed indeed! It's the first time I've ever
heard you say anything against your native land."

"I only say that we're too infatuated with mere brain-power; that, after
all, isn't a vulgar fault. But I AM changed; a woman has to change a
good deal to marry."

"I hope you'll be very happy. You will at last--over here--see something
of the inner life."

Henrietta gave a little significant sigh. "That's the key to the
mystery, I believe. I couldn't endure to be kept off. Now I've as good
a right as any one!" she added with artless elation. Isabel was duly
diverted, but there was a certain melancholy in her view. Henrietta,
after all, had confessed herself human and feminine, Henrietta whom she
had hitherto regarded as a light keen flame, a disembodied voice. It was
a disappointment to find she had personal susceptibilities, that she was
subject to common passions, and that her intimacy with Mr. Bantling had
not been completely original. There was a want of originality in her
marrying him--there was even a kind of stupidity; and for a moment, to
Isabel's sense, the dreariness of the world took on a deeper tinge. A
little later indeed she reflected that Mr. Bantling himself at least was
original. But she didn't see how Henrietta could