is no mistake." There was no mistake at least about his being very intelligent and cultivated, and knowing almost everything in the world. Although he said the most interesting and entertaining things, Isabel perceived that he never said them to exhibit himself, and though he had a great good fortune, he was as far as possible from making a merit of it. He had enjoyed the best things of life, but they had not spoiled his sense of proportion. His composition was a mixture of good-humoured manly force and a modesty that at times was almost boyish; the sweet and wholesome savour of which—it was as agreeable as something tasted—lost nothing from the addition of a tone of kindness which was not boyish, inasmuch as there was a good deal of reflection and of conscience in it.
"I like your specimen English gentleman very much." Isabel said to Ralph, after Lord Warburton had gone.
"I like him too—I love him well," said Ralph. "But I pity him more."
Isabel looked at him askance.
"Why, that seems to me his only fault that one can't pity him a little. He appears to have everything, to know everything, to be everything."
"Oh, he's in a bad way," Ralph insisted.
"I suppose you don't mean in health?"
"No, as to that, he's detestably robust. What I mean is that he is a man with a great position, who is playing all sorts of tricks with it. He doesn't take himself seriously."
"Does he regard himself as a joke?"
"Much worse; he regards himself as an imposition—as an abuse."
"Well, perhaps he is," said Isabel.
"Perhaps he is—though on the whole I don't think so.
