Page 655 - the-portrait-of-a-lady

no conceivable substitute for that success. For the moment,
Isabel went to the Hotel de Paris as often as she thought
well; the measure of propriety was in the canon of taste, and
there couldn’t have been a better proof that morality was, so
to speak, a matter of earnest appreciation. Isabel’s applica-
tion of that measure had been particularly free to-day, for in
addition to the general truth that she couldn’t leave Ralph to
die alone she had something important to ask of him. This
indeed was Gilbert’s business as well as her own.
She came very soon to what she wished to speak of. ‘I
want you to answer me a question. It’s about Lord Warbur-
ton.’
‘I think I guess your question,’ Ralph answered from his
arm-chair, out of which his thin legs protruded at greater
length than ever.
‘Very possibly you guess it. Please then answer it.’
‘Oh, I don’t say I can do that.’
‘You’re intimate with him,’ she said; ‘you’ve a great deal
of observation of him.’
‘Very true. But think how he must dissimulate!’
‘Why should he dissimulate? That’s not his nature.’
‘Ah, you must remember that the circumstances are pe-
culiar,’ said Ralph with an air of private amusement.
‘To a certain extent-yes. But is he really in love?’
‘Very much, I think. I can make that out.’
‘Ah!’ said Isabel with a certain dryness.
Ralph looked at her as if his mild hilarity had been
touched with mystification. ‘You say that as if you were dis-
appointed.’

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