ndependence of action
that are the rights of women--French women--when married; and she would
have disapproved the entrance of Isaura on her professional career until
she could enter it as a wife, the wife of an artist, the wife of Gustave
Rameau.

Unaware of the rivalry between these friendly diplomatists and schemers,
Graham and Isaura glided hourly more and more down the current, which as
yet ran smooth. No words by which love is spoken were exchanged between
them; in fact, though constantly together, they were very rarely,
and then but for moments, alone with each other. Mrs. Morley artfully
schemed more than once to give them such opportunities for that mutual
explanation of heart which, she saw, had not yet taken place; with art
more practised and more watchful, Madame Savarin contrived to baffle her
hostess's intention. But, indeed, neither Graham nor Isaura sought to
make opportunities for themselves. He, as we know, did not deem himself
wholly justified in uttering the words of love by which a man of honour
binds himself for life; and she!--what girl pure-hearted and loving
truly does not shrink from seeking the opportunities which it is for
the man to court? Yet Isaura needed no words to tell her that she was
loved,--no, nor even a pressure of the hand, a glance of the eye; she
felt it instinctively, mysteriously, by the glow of her own being in
the presence of her lover. She knew that she herself could not so love
unless she were beloved.

Here woman's wit is keener and truthfuller than man's. Graham, as I have
said, did not feel confident that he had reached the heart of Isaura.
He was conscious that he had engaged her interest, that he had
attracted her fancy; but often, when charmed by the joyous play of her
imagination, he would sigh to himself, "To natures so gifted what single
mortal can be the all in all."

They spent the summer mornings in excursions round the beautiful
neighbourhood, dined early, and sailed on the calm lake at moonlight.
Their talk was such as might be expected from lovers of books in summer
holidays. Savarin was a critic by profession; Graham Vane, if not that,
at least owed such literary reputation as he had yet gained to essays in
which the rare critical faculty was conspicuously developed.

It was pleasant to hear the clash of these two minds encountering each
other; they differed perhaps less in opinions than in the mode by which
opinions are discussed. The Englishman's rang