Lord Warburton’s glance had wandered a good deal, but at this it met the gaze of his neighbour. ‘Oh yes’ he answered in a moment; ‘the women go in for those things. The silver cross is worn by the eldest daughters of Viscounts.’ Which was his harmless revenge for having occasionally had his credulity too easily engaged in America. After luncheon he proposed to Isabel to come into the gallery and look at the pictures; and though she knew he had seen the pictures twenty times she complied without criticizing this pretext. Her conscience now was very easy; ever since she sent him her letter she had felt particularly light of spirit. He walked slowly to the end of the gallery, staring at its contents and saying nothing; and then he suddenly broke out: ‘I hoped you wouldn’t write to me that way.’

‘It was the only way, Lord Warburton,’ said the girl. ‘Do try and believe that.’

‘If I could believe it of course I should let you alone. But we can’t believe by willing it; and I confess I don’t understand. I could understand your disliking me; that I could understand well. But that you should admit you do—’

‘What have I admitted?’ Isabel interrupted, turning slightly pale.

‘That you think me a good fellow; isn’t that it?’ She said nothing, and he went on: ‘You don’t seem to have any reason, and that gives me a sense of injustice.’

‘I have a reason, Lord Warburton.’ She said it in a tone that made his heart contract.

‘I should like very much to know it.’

‘I’ll tell you some day when there’s more to show for it.’

‘Excuse my saying that in the mean time I must doubt of it.’

‘You make me very unhappy,’ said Isabel.

‘I’m not sorry for that; it may help you to know how I feel. Will you kindly answer me a question?’ Isabel made no audible assent, but he apparently saw in her eyes something that gave him courage to go on. ‘Do you prefer some one else?’

‘That’s a question I’d rather not answer.’

‘Ah, you do then!’ her suitor murmured with bitterness.

The bitterness touched her, and she cried out: ‘You’re mistaken! I don’t.’

He sat down on a bench, unceremoniously, doggedly, like a man in trouble; leaning his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor. ‘I can’t even be glad of that,’ he said at last, throwing himself back against the wall; ‘for that would be an excuse.’

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘An excuse? Must I excuse myself?’

He paid, however, no answer to the question. Another idea had come into his head. ‘Is it my political opinions? Do you think I go too far?’

‘I can’t object to your political opinions, because I don’t understand them.’

‘You don’t care what I think!’ he cried, getting up. ‘It’s all the same to you.’

Isabel walked to the other side of the gallery and stood there showing him her charming back, her light slim figure, the length of her white neck as she bent her head, and the density of her dark braids. She stopped in front of a small picture as if for the purpose of examining it; and there was something so young