told you the other day that I wanted so much to stay a while."
"Oh no; you could easily change your mind."
"That's what I have done."
"Bon voyage, then."
"You're in a great hurry to get rid of me," said his lordship, rather dismally.
"Not in the least. But I hate partings."
"You don't care what I do," he went on pitifully.
Isabel looked at him for a moment.
"Ah," she said, "you are not keeping your promise!"
He coloured like a boy of fifteen.
"If I am not, then it's because I can't; and that's why I am going."
"Good-bye, then."
"Good-bye." He lingered still, however. "When shall I see you again?"
Isabel hesitated, and then, as if she had had a happy inspiration—"Some day after you are married."
"That will never be. It will be after you are."
"That will do as well," said Isabel, smiling.
"Yes, quite as well. Good-bye."
They shook hands, and he left her alone in the beautiful room, among the shining antique marbles. She sat down in the middle of the circle of statues, looking at them vaguely, resting her eyes on their beautiful blank faces; listening, as it were, to their eternal silence. It is impossible, in Rome at least, to look long at a great company of Greek sculptures without feeling the effect of their noble quietude. It soothes and moderates the spirit, it purifies the imagination. I say in Rome especially, because the Roman air is an exquisite medium for such im-
