meet again, and succeeded in making the assumption appear almost just. He made no allusion to his term being near, to the probability that he should not outlast the summer. If he preferred it so, Isabel was willing enough; the reality was sufficiently distinct, without their erecting finger-posts in conversation. That had been well enough for the earlier time, though about this as about his other affairs Ralph had never been egotistic. Isabel spoke of his journey, of the stages into which he should divide it, of the precautions he should take.
"Henrietta is my greatest precaution," Ralph said. "The conscience of that woman is sublime."
"Certainly, she will be very conscientious."
"Will be? She has been! It's only because she thinks it's her duty that she goes with me. There's a conception of duty for you."
"Yes, it's a generous one," said Isabel, "and it makes me deeply ashamed. I ought to go with you, you know."
"Your husband wouldn't like that."
"No, he wouldn't like it. But I might go, all the same."
"I am startled by the boldness of your imagination. Fancy my being a cause of disagreement between a lady and her husband!"
"That's why I don't go," said Isabel, simply, but not very lucidly. Ralph understood well enough, however. "I should think so, with all those occupations you speak of."
"It isn't that. I am afraid," said Isabel. After a pause she repeated, as if to make herself, rather than him, hear the words—"I am afraid."
Ralph could hardly tell what her tone meant; it was so strangely deliberate—apparently so void of emotion. Did she
