chances for what?”
“I don't mean chances to marry,” said Isabel, her colour quickly coming back to her. And then she stopped, looking down with a deep frown, as if it were hopeless to attempt to make her meaning clear.
“I don't think it presumptuous in me to suggest that you'll gain more than you'll lose,” her companion observed.
“I can't escape unhappiness,” said Isabel. “In marrying you I shall be trying to.”
“I don't know whether you'd try to, but you certainly would: that I must in candour admit!” he exclaimed with an anxious laugh.
“I mustn't – I can't!” cried the girl.
“Well, if you're bent on being miserable I don't see why you should make me so. Whatever charms a life of misery may have for you, it has none for me.”
“I'm not bent on a life of misery,” said Isabel. “I've always been intensely determined to be happy, and I've often believed I should be. I've told people that; you can ask them. But it comes over me every now and then that I can never be happy in any extraordinary way; not by turning away, by separating myself.”
“By separating yourself from what?”
“From life. From the usual chances and dangers, from what most people know and suffer.”
Lord Warburton broke into a smile that almost denoted hope. “Why, my dear Miss Archer,” he began to explain with the most considerate eagerness, “I don't offer you any exoneration from life or from any chances or dangers whatever. I wish I could; depend upon it I would! For what do you take me, pray? Heaven help me, I'm not the Emperor of China! All I offer you is the chance of taking the common lot in a comfortable sort of way. The common lot? Why, I'm devoted to the common lot! Strike an alliance with me, and I promise you that you shall have plenty of it. You shall separate from nothing whatever – not even from your friend Miss Stackpole.”
“She'd never approve of it,” said Isabel, trying to smile and take advantage of this side-issue; despising herself too, not a little, for doing so.
“Are we speaking of Miss Stackpole?” his lordship asked impatiently. “I never saw a person judge things on such theoretic grounds.”
“Now I suppose you're speaking of me,” said Isabel with humility; and she turned away again, for she saw Miss Molyneux enter the gallery, accompanied by Henrietta and by Ralph.
Lord Warburton's sister addressed him with a certain timidity and reminded him she ought to return home in time for tea, as she was expecting company to partake of it. He made no answer – apparently not having heard her; he was preoccupied, and with good reason. Miss Molyneux – as if he had been Royalty – stood like a lady-in-waiting.
“Well, I never, Miss Molyneux!” said Henrietta Stackpole. “If I wanted to go he'd have to go. If I wanted my brother to do a thing he'd have to do it.”
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