"Don't make me out too old," Isabel answered, smiling. "You come back to that very often, and I have never denied it. But I must tell you that, old friends as we are, if you had done me the honour to ask me to marry you I should have refused you."
"Ah, you don't esteem me, then. Say at once that you think I'm a trifler!"
"I esteem you very much, but I'm not in love with you. What I mean by that, of course, is that I am not in love with you for Pansy."
"Very good; I see; you pity me, that's all."
And Edward Rosier looked all round, inconsequently, with his single glass. It was a revelation to him that people shouldn't be more pleased; but he was at least too proud to show that the movement struck him as general.
Isabel for a moment said nothing. His manner and appearance had not the dignity of the deepest tragedy; his little glass among other things, was against that. But she suddenly felt touched; her own unhappiness, after all, had something in common with his, and it came over her, more than before, that here, in recognisable, if not in romantic form, was the most affecting thing in the world—young love struggling with adversity.
"Would you really be very kind to her?" she said, in a low tone. He dropped his eyes, devoutly, and raised the little flower which he held in his fingers to his lips. Then he looked at her. "You pity me; but don't you pity her a little?"
"I don't know; I am not sure. She will always enjoy life."
"It will depend on what you call life!" Rosier exclaimed. "She won't enjoy being tortured."
"There will be nothing of that."
