‘Afraid I’ll begin again? I promise to be very careful.’

They had gradually stopped and they stood a moment face to face. ‘Poor Lord Warburton!’ she said with a compassion intended to be good for both of them.

‘Poor Lord Warburton indeed! But I’ll be careful.’

‘You may be unhappy, but you shall not make me so. That I can’t allow.’

‘If I believed I could make you unhappy I think I should try it.’ At this she walked in advance and he also proceeded. ‘I’ll never say a word to displease you.’

‘Very good. If you do, our friendship’s at an end.’

‘Perhaps some day—after a while—you’ll give me leave.’

‘Give you leave to make me unhappy?’

He hesitated. ‘To tell you again—’ But he checked himself. ‘I’ll keep it down. I’ll keep it down always.’

Ralph Touchett had been joined in his visit to the excavation by Miss Stackpole and her attendant, and these three now emerged from among the mounds of earth and stone collected round the aperture and came into sight of Isabel and her companion. Poor Ralph hailed his friend with joy qualified by wonder, and Henrietta exclaimed in a high voice ‘Gracious, there’s that lord!’ Ralph and his English neighbour greeted with the austerity with which, after long separations, English neighbours greet, and Miss Stackpole rested her large intellectual gaze upon the sunburnt traveller. But she soon established her relation to the crisis. ‘I don’t suppose you remember me, sir.’

‘Indeed I do remember you,’ said Lord Warburton. ‘I asked you to come and see me, and you never came.’

‘I don’t go everywhere I’m asked,’ Miss Stackpole answered coldly.

‘Ah well, I won’t ask you again,’ laughed the master of Lockleigh.

‘If you do I’ll go; so be sure!’

Lord Warburton, for all his hilarity, seemed sure enough. Mr Bantling had stood by without claiming a recognition, but he now took occasion to nod to his lordship, who answered him with a friendly ‘Oh, you here, Bantling?’ and a hand-shake.

‘Well,’ said Henrietta, ‘I didn’t know you knew him!’

‘I guess you don’t know every one I know,’ Mr Bantling rejoined facetiously.

‘I thought that when an Englishman knew a lord he always told you.’

‘Ah, I’m afraid Bantling was ashamed of me,’ Lord Warburton laughed again. Isabel took pleasure in that note; she gave a small sigh of relief as they kept their course homeward.

The next day was Sunday; she spent her morning over two long letters—one to her sister Lily, the other to Madame Merle; but in neither of these epistles did she mention the fact that a rejected suitor had threatened her with another appeal. Of a Sunday afternoon all good Romans (and the best Romans are often the northern barbarians) follow the custom of going to vespers at Saint Peter’s; and it had been agreed among our friends that they would drive together to the great church. After lunch, an hour before the carriage came, Lord Warburton presented himself at the Hôtel de Paris and paid a visit to the two