young woman, a young woman whose attention had wandered and whose charms were greater—this was an anomaly which for the moment challenged all his ingenuity of interpretation. To read between the lines was easier than to follow the text, and to suppose that Miss Stackpole wished the gentleman invited to Gardencourt on her own account was the sign not so much of a vulgar as of an embarrassed mind. Even from this venial act of vulgarity, however, Ralph was saved, and saved by a force that I can only speak of as inspiration. With no more outward light on the subject than he already possessed he suddenly acquired the conviction that it would be a sovereign injustice to the correspondent of the Interviewer to assign a dishonourable motive to any act of hers. This conviction passed into his mind with extreme rapidity; it was perhaps kindled by the pure radiance of the young lady’s imperturbable gaze. He returned this challenge a moment, consciously, resisting an inclination to frown as one frowns in the presence of larger luminaries. ‘Who’s the gentleman you speak of?’

‘Mr Caspar Goodwood—of Boston. He has been extremely attentive to Isabel—just as devoted to her as he can live. He has followed her out here and he’s at present in London. I don’t know his address, but I guess I can obtain it.’

‘I’ve never heard of him,’ said Ralph.

‘Well, I suppose you haven’t heard of every one. I don’t believe he has ever heard of you; but that’s no reason why Isabel shouldn’t marry him.’

Ralph gave a mild ambiguous laugh. ‘What a rage you have for marrying people! Do you remember how you wanted to marry me the other day?’

‘I’ve got over that. You don’t know how to take such ideas. Mr Goodwood does, however; and that’s what I like about him. He’s a splendid man and a perfect gentleman, and Isabel knows it.’

‘Is she very fond of him?’

‘If she isn’t she ought to be. He’s simply wrapped up in her.’

‘And you wish me to ask him here,’ said Ralph reflectively.

‘It would be an act of true hospitality.’

‘Casper Goodwood,’ Ralph continued—‘it’s rather a striking name.’

‘I don’t care anything about his name. It might be Ezekiel Jenkins, and I should say the same. He’s the only man I have ever seen whom I think worthy of Isabel.’

‘You’re a very devoted friend,’ said Ralph.

‘Of course I am. If you say that to pour scorn on me I don’t care.’

‘I don’t say it to pour scorn on you; I’m very much struck with it.’

‘You’re more satiric than ever, but I advise you not to laugh at Mr Goodwood.’

‘I assure you I’m very serious; you ought to understand that,’ said Ralph.

In a moment his companion understood it. ‘I believe you are; now you’re too serious.’

‘You’re difficult to please.’

‘Oh, you’re very serious indeed. You won’t invite Mr Goodwood.’