of a passion that had sifted itself clear of the baser parts of emotion—the heat, the violence, the unreason—and that burned as steadily as a lamp in a windless place.

By tacit consent, as he talked, they had walked more and more slowly, and at last they stopped and he took her hand. ‘Ah, Lord Warburton, how little you know me!’ Isabel said very gently. Gently too she drew her hand away.

‘Don’t taunt me with that; that I don’t know you better makes me unhappy enough already; it’s all my loss. But that’s what I want, and it seems to me I’m taking the best way. If you’ll be my wife, then I shall know you, and when I tell you all the good I think of you you’ll not be able to say it’s from ignorance.’

‘If you know me little I know you even less,’ said Isabel.

‘You mean that, unlike yourself, I may not improve on acquaintance? Ah, of course that’s very possible. But think, to speak to you as I do, how determined I must be to try and give satisfaction! You do like me rather, don’t you?’

‘I like you very much, Lord Warburton,’ she answered; and at this moment she liked him immensely.

‘I thank you for saying that; it shows you don’t regard me as a stranger. I really believe I’ve filled all the other relations of life very creditably, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t fill this one—in which I offer myself to you—seeing that I care so much more about it. Ask the people who know me well; I’ve friends who’ll speak for me.’

‘I don’t need the recommendation of your friends,’ said Isabel.

‘Ah now, that’s delightful of you. You believe in me yourself.’

‘Completely,’ Isabel declared. She quite glowed there, inwardly, with the pleasure of feeling she did.

The light in her companion’s eyes turned into a smile, and he gave a long exhalation of joy. ‘If you’re mistaken, Miss Archer, let me lose all I possess!’

She wondered whether he meant this for a reminder that he was rich, and, on the instant, felt sure that he didn’t. He was sinking that, as he would have said himself; and indeed he might safely leave it to the memory of any interlocutor, especially of one to whom he was offering his hand. Isabel had prayed that she might not be agitated, and her mind was tranquil enough, even while she listened and asked herself what it was best she should say, to indulge in this incidental criticism. What she should say, had she asked herself? Her foremost wish was to say something if possible not less kind than what he had said to her. His words had carried perfect conviction with them; she felt she did, all so mysteriously, matter to him. ‘I thank you more than I can say for your offer,’ she returned at last. ‘It does me great honour.’

‘Ah, don’t say that!’ he broke out. ‘I was afraid you’d say something like that. I don’t see what you’ve to do with that sort of thing. I don’t see why you should thank me—it’s I who ought to thank you for listening to me: a man you know so little coming down on you with such a thumper! Of course it’s a great question; I must tell you that I’d rather ask it than have it to answer myself. But the way you’ve listened—or at least your having listened at all—gives me some hope.’

‘Don’t hope too much,’ Isabel said.

‘Oh Miss Archer!’ her companion murmured, smiling again, in his seriousness, as if such a warning might perhaps be taken but as the play of high spirits, the exuberance of elation.

‘Should you be greatly surprised if I were to beg you not to hope at all?’ Isabel asked.