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about him. He’s a splendid man and a perfect gentleman,
and Isabel knows it.’
‘Is she very fond of him?’
‘If she isn’t she ought to be. He’s simply wrapped up in
her.’
‘And you wish me to ask him here,’ said Ralph reflec-
tively.
‘It would be an act of true hospitality.’
‘Caspar Goodwood,’ Ralph continued—‘it’s rather a
striking name.’
‘I don’t care anything about his name. It might be Ezekiel
Jenkins, and I should say the same. He’s the only man I have
ever seen whom I think worthy of Isabel.’
‘You’re a very devoted friend,’ said Ralph.
‘Of course I am. If you say that to pour scorn on me I
don’t care.’
‘I don’t say it to pour scorn on you; I’m very much struck
with it.’
‘You’re more satiric than ever, but I advise you not to
laugh at Mr. Goodwood.’
‘I assure you I’m very serious; you ought to understand
that,’ said Ralph.
In a moment his companion understood it. ‘I believe you
are; now you’re too serious.’
‘You’re difficult to please.’
‘Oh, you’re very serious indeed. You won’t invite Mr.
Goodwood.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Ralph. ‘I’m capable of strange things.
Tell me a little about Mr. Goodwood. What’s he like?’

170 The Portrait of a Lady