‘You’ll gain quite as much as by worrying me to death!’ Caspar Goodwood bent his eyes again and gazed a while into the crown of his hat. A deep flush overspread his face; she could see her sharpness had at last penetrated. This immediately had a value—classic, romantic, redeeming, what did she know?—for her; ‘the strong man in pain’ was one of the categories of the human appeal, little charm as he might exert in the given case. ‘Why do you make me say such things to you?’ she cried in a trembling voice. ‘I only want to be gentle—to be thoroughly kind. It’s not delightful to me to feel people care for me and yet to have to try and reason them out of it. I think others also ought to be considerate; we have each to judge for ourselves. I know you’re considerate, as much as you can be; you’ve good reasons for what you do. But I really don’t want to marry, or to talk about it at all now. I shall probably never do it—no, never. I’ve a perfect right to feel that way, and it’s no kindness to a woman to press her so hard, to urge her against her will. If I give you pain I can only say I’m very sorry. It’s not my fault; I can’t marry you simply to please you. I won’t say that I shall always remain your friend, because when women say that, in these situations, it passes, I believe, for a sort of mockery. But try me some day.’

Caspar Goodwood, during this speech, had kept his eyes fixed upon the name of his hatter, and it was not until some time after she had ceased speaking that he raised them. When he did so the sight of a rosy, lovely eagerness in Isabel’s face threw some confusion into his attempt to analyse her words. ‘I’ll go home—I’ll go tomorrow—I’ll leave you alone,’ he brought out at last. ‘Only,’ he heavily said, ‘I hate to lose sight of you!’

‘Never fear. I shall do no harm.’

‘You’ll marry some one else, as sure as I sit here,’ Caspar Goodwood declared.

‘Do you think that a generous charge?’

‘Why not? Plenty of men will try to make you.’

‘I told you just now that I don’t wish to marry and that I almost certainly never shall.’

‘I know you did, and I like your “almost certainly”! I put no faith in what you say.’

‘Thank you very much. Do you accuse me of lying to shake you off? You say very delicate things.’

‘Why should I not say that? You’ve given me no pledge of anything at all.’

‘No, that’s all that would be wanting!’

‘You may perhaps even believe you’re safe—from wishing to be. But you’re not,’ the young man went on as if preparing himself for the worst.

‘Very well then. We’ll put it that I’m not safe. Have it as you please.’

‘I don’t know however,’ said Caspar Goodwood, ‘that my keeping you in sight would prevent it.’

‘Don’t you indeed? I’m after all very much afraid of you. Do you think I’m so very easily pleased?’ she asked suddenly, changing her tone.

‘No—I don’t; I shall try to console myself with that. But there are a certain number of very dazzling men in the world, no doubt; and if there were only one it would be enough. The most dazzling of all will make straight for you. You’ll be sure to take no one who isn’t dazzling.’

‘If you mean by dazzling brilliantly clever,’ Isabel said—‘and I can’t imagine what else you mean—I don’t need the aid of a clever man to teach me how to live. I can find it out for myself.’

‘Find out how to live alone? I wish that, when you have, you’d teach me!’