and the two took their departure, leaving the girl and her cousin together in the square, over which a clear September twilight had now begun to gather. It was perfectly still; the wide quadrangle of dusky houses showed lights in none of the windows, where the shutters and blinds were closed; the pavements were a vacant expanse, and, putting aside two small children from a neighbouring slum, who, attracted by symptoms of abnormal animation in the interior, poked their faces between the rusty rails of the enclosure, the most vivid object within sight was the big red pillar-post on the southeast corner.
“Henrietta will ask him to get into the cab and go with her to Jermyn Street,” Ralph observed. He always spoke of Miss Stackpole as Henrietta.
“Very possibly,” said his companion.
“Or rather, no, she won’t,” he went on. “But Bantling will ask leave to get in.”
“Very likely again. I’m glad very they’re such good friends.”
“She has made a conquest. He thinks her a brilliant woman. It may go far,” said Ralph.
Isabel was briefly silent. “I call Henrietta a very brilliant woman, but I don’t think it will go far. They would never really know each other. He has not the least idea what she really is, and she has no just comprehension of Mr. Bantling.”
“There’s no more usual basis of union than a mutual misunderstanding. But it ought not to be so difficult to understand Bob Bantling,” Ralph added. “He is a very simple organism.”
“Yes, but Henrietta’s a simpler one still. And, pray, what am I to do?” Isabel asked, looking about her through the fading light, in which the limited landscape-gardening of the square took on a large and effective appearance. “I don’t imagine that you’ll propose that you and I, for our amusement, shall drive about London in a hansom.”
“There’s no reason we shouldn’t stay here — if you don’t dislike it. It’s very warm; there will he half an hour yet before dark; and if you permit it I’ll light a cigarette.”
“You may do what you please,” said Isabel, “if you’ll amuse me till seven o’clock. I propose at that hour to go back and partake of a simple and solitary repast — two poached eggs and a muffin — at Pratt’s Hotel.”
“Mayn’t I dine with you?” Ralph asked.
“No, you’ll dine at your club.”
They had wandered back to their chairs in the centre of the square again, and Ralph had lighted his cigarette. It would have given him extreme pleasure to be present in person at the modest little feast she had sketched; but in default of this he liked even being forbidden. For the moment, however, he liked immensely being alone with her, in the thickening dusk, in the centre of the multitudinous town; it made her seem to depend upon him and to be in his power. This power he could exert but vaguely; the best exercise of it was to accept her decisions submissively which indeed there was already an emotion in doing. “Why won’t you let me dine with you?” he demanded after a pause.
“Because I don’t care for it.”
“I suppose you’re tired of me.”
“I shall be an hour hence. You see I have the gift of foreknowledge.”
“Oh, I shall be delightful meanwhile,” said Ralph.
But he said nothing more, and as she made no rejoinder they sat some time in a stillness which seemed to contradict his promise of entertainment. It seemed to him she was preoccupied, and he wondered what she was thinking about; there were two or three very possible subjects. At last he spoke again. “Is your objection to my society this evening caused by your expectation of another visitor?”
She turned her head with a glance of her clear, fair eyes. “Another visitor? What visitor should I have?”
He had none to suggest; which made his question seem to himself silly as well as brutal. “You’ve a great many friends that I don’t know. You’ve a whole past from which I was perversely excluded.”
“You were reserved for my future. You must remember that my past is over there across the water. There’s none of it here in London.”
“Very good, then, since your future is seated beside you. Capital thing to have your future so handy.” And Ralph lighted another cigarette and reflected that Isabel probably meant she had received news that Mr. Caspar Goodwood had crossed to Paris. After he had lighted his cigarette he puffed it a while, and then he resumed. “I promised just now to be very amusing; but you see I don’t come up to the mark, and the fact is there’s a good deal of temerity in one’s undertaking to amuse a person like you. What do you care for my feeble attempts? You’ve grand ideas — you’ve a high standard in such matters. I ought at least to bring in a band of music or a company of mountebanks.”
“One mountebank’s enough, and you do very well. Pray go on, and in another ten minutes I shall begin to laugh.”
“I assure you I’m very serious,” said Ralph. “You do really ask a great deal.”
“I don’t know what you mean. I ask nothing.”
“You accept nothing,” said Ralph. She coloured, and now suddenly it seemed to her that she guessed his meaning. But why should he speak to her of such things? He hesitated a little and then he continued: “There’s something I should like very much to say to you. It’s a question I wish to ask. It seems to me I’ve a right to ask it, because I’ve a kind of interest in the answer.”
“Ask what you will,” Isabel replied gently, “and I’ll try to satisfy you.”
“Well then, I hope you won’t mind my saying that Warburton has told me of something that has passed between you.”
Isabel suppressed a start; she sat looking at her open fan. “Very good; I suppose it was natural he should tell you.”
“I have his leave to let you know he has done so. He has some hope still,” said Ralph.
“Still?”
“He had it a few days ago.”
“I don’t believe he has any now,” said the girl.
“I’m very sorry for him then; he’s such an honest man.”
“Pray, did he ask you to talk to me?”
“No, not that. But he told me because he couldn’t help it. We’re old friends, and he was greatly disappointed. He sent me a line asking me to come and see him, and I drove over to Lockleigh the day before he and his sister lunched with us. He was very heavy-hearted; he had just got a letter from you.”
“Did he show you the letter?” asked Isabel with momentary loftiness.
“By no means. But he told me it was a neat refusal. I was very sorry for him,” Ralph repeated.
For some moments Isabel said nothing; then at last, “Do you know how often he had seen me?” she enquired. “Five or six times.”
“That’s to your glory.”
“It’s not for that I say it.”
“What
