Page 112 - the-portrait-of-a-lady

to amuse yourself.’ The note she had heard in his voice a
moment before reappeared, and mixed with it now was an
audible strain of bitterness—a bitterness so abrupt and in-
consequent that the girl was afraid she had hurt him. She
had often heard that the English are a highly eccentric peo-
ple, and she had even read in some ingenious author that
they are at bottom the most romantic of races. Was Lord
Warburton suddenly turning romantic—was he going to
make her a scene, in his own house, only the third time they
had met? She was reassured quickly enough by her sense
of his great good manners, which was not impaired by the
fact that he had already touched the furthest limit of good
taste in expressing his admiration of a young lady who had
confided in his hospitality. She was right in trusting to his
good manners, for he presently went on, laughing a little
and without a trace of the accent that had discomposed her:
‘I don’t mean of course that you amuse yourself with trifles.
You select great materials; the foibles, the afflictions of hu-
man nature, the peculiarities of nations!’
‘As regards that,’ said Isabel, ‘I should find in my own na-
tion entertainment for a lifetime. But we’ve a long drive, and
my aunt will soon wish to start.’ She turned back toward the
others and Lord Warburton walked beside her in silence.
But before they reached the others, ‘I shall come and see you
next week,’ he said.
She had received an appreciable shock, but as it died
away she felt that she couldn’t pretend to herself that it was
altogether a painful one. Nevertheless she made answer to
his declaration, coldly enough, ‘Just as you please.’ And her

112 The Portrait of a Lady