Isabel answered that this had not been the case, and let the conversation drop. On the morrow, however, coming into the drawing-room late in the afternoon, her husband took it up again.
"When Lord Warburton told you of his intention of writing, what did you say to him?" he asked.
Isabel hesitated a moment. "I think I told him not to forget it."
"Did you believe there was a danger of that?"
"As you say, he's an odd fish."
"Apparently he has forgotten it," said Osmond. "Be so good as to remind him."
"Should you like me to write to him?" Isabel asked.
"I have no objection whatever."
"You expect too much of me."
"Ah yes, I expect a great deal of you."
"I am afraid I shall disappoint you," said Isabel.
"My expectations have survived a good deal of disappointment."
"Of course I know that. Think how I must have disappointed myself! If you really wish to capture Lord Warburton, you must do it yourself."
For a couple of minutes Osmond answered nothing; then he said—"That won't be easy, with you working against me."
Isabel started; she felt herself beginning to tremble. He had a way of looking at her through half-closed eyelids, as if he were thinking of her but scarcely saw her, which seemed to her to have a wonderfully cruel intention. It appeared to recognise her as a disagreeable necessity of thought, but to ignore her, for the time, as a presence. That was the expression of his eyes now.
"I think you accuse me of something very base," she said.
