d down to a steady monologue.
Miss Boutts knew that it was an American girl's business to be animated,
entertaining, amusing, especially with Englishmen, who hated effort.
Occasionally there was a masculine rumble, with a growing accent of
desperation, and the indulgent little bursts of laughter diminished in
frequence and spontaneity. Isabel lifted down volume after volume of the
books on farming her uncle had collected, letting one fall, rattling
leaves when leaves would rattle. An hour passed. She appropriated
Gwynne's writing materials and took what appeared to be copious notes.
The host suddenly excused himself and came within.

"Won't you have tea?" he demanded. "It is rather early, but after that
drive--"

"Much too early," said Isabel, absently. Her chin was on her hand, her
eyes were on a spotted page. "Mariana is sure to be asleep. Do go back
to Dolly. She is one of those girls that can't bear to be left alone. I
didn't bring her out here to be bored."

"Didn't you? What on earth do you want of all those notes? Are you going
to write a treatise?"

"Of course not. Do go back."

Gwynne returned to the veranda. For more than another hour that sweet
nasal monotonous voice trilled on. Then it began to flag. Then a silence
ensued, broken at first by sporadic and staccato remarks, then becoming
as dense as the silences of the night. Again Gwynne invaded his
living-room.

"Isabel!" he said, in a low tense tone.

Isabel looked up dreamily and encountered a haggard face and a pair of
blazing eyes. "I'll never forgive you!" he whispered.

"For what?"

"For what! Do you want to drive me mad? Take her home!"

"Do you mean to say that you have not been enjoying yourself?"

"Enjoying myself! I have been on the rack."

"You are the rudest--most unsatisfactory--I thought I knew your taste."

"Oh, _please_!"

"What do you mean?"

They confronted each other, Gwynne flushed and angry, Isabel coldly
interrogative. Gwynne, who had been on the verge of an explosion, felt
suddenly helpless. It was assuming a great deal to tell a woman that he
saw through her plot to disenchant him with a rival. He could hear the
descending whip of Isabel's scorn. Besides, it would mean a quarrel, and
much as he resented her interference in his destinies, especially this
last and most notable success, he had no desire to break up the even
surface of their relation. So he merely shrugged his shoulders and said,
with what calmness he