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his ingenuity of interpretation. To read between the lines
was easier than to follow the text, and to suppose that Miss
Stackpole wished the gentleman invited to Gardencourt on
her own account was the sign not so much of a vulgar as of
an embarrassed mind. Even from this venial act of vulgari-
ty, however, Ralph was saved, and saved by a force that I can
only speak of as inspiration. With no more outward light on
the subject than he already possessed he suddenly acquired
the conviction that it would be a sovereign injustice to the
correspondent of the Interviewer to assign a dishonourable
motive to any act of hers. This conviction passed into his
mind with extreme rapidity; it was perhaps kindled by the
pure radiance of the young lady’s imperturbable gaze. He
returned this challenge a moment, consciously, resisting an
inclination to frown as one frowns in the presence of larger
luminaries. ‘Who’s the gentleman you speak of?’
‘Mr. Caspar Goodwood—of Boston. He has been ex-
tremely attentive to Isabel—just as devoted to her as he can
live. He has followed her out here and he’s at present in Lon-
don. I don’t know his address, but I guess I can obtain it.’
‘I’ve never heard of him,’ said Ralph.
‘Well, I suppose you haven’t heard of every one. I don’t
believe he has ever heard of you; but that’s no reason why
Isabel shouldn’t marry him.’
Ralph gave a mild ambiguous laugh. ‘What a rage you
have for marrying people! Do you remember how you want-
ed to marry me the other day?’
‘I’ve got over that. You don’t know how to take such
ideas. Mr. Goodwood does, however; and that’s what I like

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