Caspar gazed at her with, great interest. "Is he an Englishman?"
"He is an English nobleman," said Isabel.
Mr. Goodwood received this announcement in silence; then, at last, he said—"I am glad he is disappointed."
""Well, then, as you have companions in misfortune, make the best of it."
"I don't call him a companion," said Caspar, grimly.
"Why not—since I declined his offer absolutely?"
"That doesn't make him my companion. Besides, he's an Englishman."
"And pray is not an Englishman a human being?" Isabel inquired.
"Oh, no; he's superhuman."
"You are angry," said the girl. "We have discussed this matter quite enough."
"Oh, yes, I am angry. I plead guilty to that!"
Isabel turned away from him, walked to the open window, and stood a moment looking into the dusky vacancy of the street, where a turbid gaslight alone represented social animation. For some time neither of these young persons spoke; Caspar lingered near the chimney-piece, with his eyes gloomily fixed upon our heroine. She had virtually requested him to withdraw—he knew that; but at the risk of making himself odious to her he kept his ground. She was far too dear to him to be easily forfeited, and he had sailed across the Atlantic to extract some pledge from her. Presently she left the window and stood before him again.
"You do me very little justice," she said—"after my telling you what I told you just now. I am sorry I told you—since it matters so little to you."
