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self has no intention of pushing, I presume. I’m not afraid I
shall not be able to justify myself!’ she said lightly.
Her mask had dropped for an instant, but she had put it
on again, to Ralph’s infinite disappointment. He had caught
a glimpse of her natural face and he wished immensely to
look into it. He had an almost savage desire to hear her
complain of her husband-hear her say that she should be
held accountable for Lord Warburton’s defection. Ralph
was certain that this was her situation; he knew by instinct,
in advance, the form that in such an event Osmond’s dis-
pleasure would take. It could only take the meanest and
cruellest. He would have liked to warn Isabel of it-to let her
see at least how he judged for her and how he knew. It little
mattered that Isabel would know much better; it was for his
own satisfaction more than for hers that he longed to show
her he was not deceived. He tried and tried again to make
her betray Osmond; he felt cold-blooded, cruel, dishonour-
able almost, in doing so. But it scarcely mattered, for he only
failed. What had she come for then, and why did she seem
almost to offer him a chance to violate their tacit conven-
tion? Why did she ask him his advice if she gave him no
liberty to answer her? How could they talk of her domestic
embarrassments, as it pleased her humorously to designate
them, if the principal factor was not to be mentioned? These
contradictions were themselves but an indication of her
trouble, and her cry for help, just before, was the only thing
he was bound to consider. ‘You’ll be decidedly at variance,
all the same,’ he said in a moment. And as she answered
nothing, looking as if she scarce understood, ‘You’ll find

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