The satisfaction poor Caspar exhibited was certainly small; he sat very upright, gazing at her.
"Where does he come from?" he went on.
"From nowhere. He has spent most of his life in Italy."
"You said in your letter that he was an American. Hasn't he a native place?"
"Yes, but he has forgotten it. He left it as a small boy."
"Has he never gone back?"
"Why should he go back?" Isabel asked, flushing a little, and defensively. "He has no profession."
"He might have gone back for his pleasure. Doesn't he like the United States?"
"He doesn't know them. Then he is very simple—he contents himself with Italy."
"With Italy and with you," said Mr. Goodwood, with gloomy plainness, and no appearance of trying to make an epigram. "What has he ever done?" he added, abruptly.
"That I should marry him? Nothing at all," Isabel replied, with a smile that had gradually become a trifle defiant. "If he had done great things would you forgive me any better? Give me up, Mr. Goodwood; I am marrying a nonentity. Don't try to take an interest in him; you can't."
"I can't appreciate him; that's what you mean. And you don't mean in the least that he is a nonentity. You think he is a great man, though no one else thinks so."
Isabel's colour deepened; she thought this very clever of her companion, and it was certainly a proof of the clairvoyance of such a feeling as his.
"Why do you always come back to what others think? I can't discuss Mr. Osmond with you."
"Of course not," said Caspar, reasonably.
