risk one this morning, I think. Is it your belief that he really cares for her?"
"Ah, for Pansy, no!" cried Ralph, very positively.
"But you said just now that he did."
Ralph hesitated a moment. "That he cared for you, Mrs. Osmond."
Isabel shook her head, gravely. "That's nonsense, you know."
"Of course it is. But the nonsense is Warburton's, not mine."
"That would be very tiresome," Isabel said, speaking, as she flattered herself, with much subtlety.
"I ought to tell you indeed," Ralph went on, "that to me he has denied it."
"It's very good of you to talk about it together! Has he also told you that he is in love with Pansy?"
"He has spoken very well of her—very properly. He has let me know, of course, that he thinks she would do very well at Lockleigh."
"Does he really think it?"
"Ah, what Warburton really thinks———!" said Ralph.
Isabel fell to smoothing her gloves again; they were long, loose gloves upon which she could freely expend herself. Soon, however, she looked up, and then—
"Ah, Ralph, you give me no help!" she cried, abruptly, passionately.
It was the first time she had alluded to the need for help, and the words shook her cousin with their violence. He gave a long murmur of relief, of pity, of tenderness; it seemed to him that at last the gulf between them had been bridged. It was this that made him exclaim in a moment—
"How unhappy you must be!"
