familiar grace. She seemed to be waiting for him to speak. Now that he was alone with her, all the passion that he had never stifled surged into his senses; it hummed in his eyes and made things swim around him. The bright, empty room grew dim and blurred, and through the rustling tissue he saw Isabel hover before him with gleaming eyes and parted lips. If he had seen more distinctly he would have perceived that her smile was fixed and a trifle forced—that she was frightened at what she saw in his own face.
"I suppose you wish to bid me good-bye?" she said.
"Yes—but I don't like it. I don't want to leave Rome," he answered, with almost plaintive honesty.
"I can well imagine. It is wonderfully good of you. I can't tell you how kind I think you."
For a moment more he said nothing. "With a few words like that you make me go."
"You must come back some day," Isabel rejoined, brightly.
"Some day? You mean as long a time hence as possible."
"Oh no; I don't mean all that."
"What do you mean? I don't understand! But I said I would go, and I will go," Goodwood added.
"Come back whenever you like," said Isabel, with attempted lightness.
"I don't care a straw for your cousin!" Caspar broke out.
"Is that what you wished to tell me?"
"No, no; I didn't want to tell you anything; I wanted to ask you—" he paused a moment, and then "—what have you really made of your life?" he said, in a low, quick tone. He paused again, as if for an answer; but she said nothing, and he went on—"I can't understand, I can't penetrate you! What am I to believe—what do you want me to think?" Still she
