"An excuse? Must I excuse myself?"
He paid, however, no answer to the question. Another idea had come into his head.
"Is it my political opinions? Do you think I go too far?"
"I can't object to your political opinions, Lord Warburton," said the girl, "because I don't understand them."
"You don't care what I think," he cried, getting up. "It's all the same to you."
Isabel walked away, to the other side of the gallery, and stood there, showing him her charming back, her light slim figure, the length of her white neck as she bent her head, and the density of her dark braids. She stopped in front of a small picture, as if for the purpose of examining it; and there was something young and flexible in her movement, which her companion noticed. Isabel's eyes, however, saw nothing; they had suddenly been suffused with tears. In a moment he followed her, and by this time she had brushed her tears away; but when she turned round, her face was pale, and the expression of her eyes was strange.
"That reason that I wouldn't tell you," she said, "I will tell it you, after all. It is that I can't escape my fate."
"Your fate?"
"I should try to escape it if I should marry you."
"I don't understand. Why should not that be your fate, as well as anything else?"
"Because it is not," said Isabel, femininely. "I know it is not. It's not my fate to give up—I know it can't be."
Poor Lord Warburton stared, with an interrogative point in either eye.
"Do you call marrying me giving up?"
