to spare his sensibility or to escape from him edgewise, as one might do from a man who had barred the way less sturdily—this, in dealing with Caspar Goodwood, who would grasp at everything of every sort that one might give him, was wasted agility. It was not that he had not susceptibilities, but his passive surface, as well as his active, was large and hard, and he might always be trusted to dress his wounds, so far as they required it, himself. She came back, even for her measure of possible pangs and aches in him, to her old sense that he was naturally plated and steeled, armed essentially for aggression.

‘I can’t reconcile myself to that,’ he simply said. There was a dangerous liberality about it; for she felt how open it was to him to make the point that he had not always disgusted her.

‘I can’t reconcile myself to it either, and it’s not the state of things that ought to exist between us. If you’d only try to banish me from your mind for a few months we should be on good terms again.’

‘I see. If I should cease to think of you at all for a prescribed time, I should find I could keep it up indefinitely.’

‘Indefinitely is more than I ask. It’s more even than I should like.’

‘You know that what you ask is impossible,’ said the young man, taking his adjective for granted in a manner she found irritating.

‘Aren’t you capable of making a calculated effort?’ she demanded. ‘You’re strong for everything else; why shouldn’t you be strong for that?’

‘An effort calculated for what?’ And then as she hung fire, ‘I’m capable of nothing with regard to you,’ he went on, ‘but just of being infernally in love with you. If one’s strong one loves only the more strongly.’

‘There’s a good deal in that;’ and indeed our young lady felt the force of it—felt it thrown off, into the vast of truth and poetry, as practically a bait to her imagination. But she promptly came round. ‘Think of me or not, as you find most possible; only leave me alone.’

‘Until when?’

‘Well, for a year or two.’

‘Which do you mean? Between one year and two there’s all the difference in the world.’

‘Call it two then,’ said Isabel with a studied effect of eagerness.

‘And what shall I gain by that?’ her friend asked with no sign of wincing.

‘You’ll have obliged me greatly.’

‘And what will be my reward?’

‘Do you need a reward for an act of generosity?’

‘Yes, when it involves a great sacrifice.’

‘There’s no generosity without some sacrifice. Men don’t understand such things. If you make the sacrifice you’ll have all my admiration.’

‘I don’t care a cent for your admiration—not one straw, with nothing to show for it. When will you marry me? That’s the only question.’

‘Never—if you go on making me feel only as I feel at present.’

‘What do I gain then by not trying to make you feel otherwise?’


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