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signifying her wishes.
‘Shall I show the gentleman up, ma’am?’ he asked with a
slightly encouraging inflexion.
Isabel hesitated still and while she hesitated glanced at
the mirror. ‘He may come in,’ she said at last; and waited for
him not so much smoothing her hair as girding her spirit.
Caspar Goodwood was accordingly the next moment
shaking hands with her, but saying nothing till the servant
had left the room. ‘Why didn’t you answer my letter?’ he
then asked in a quick, full, slightly peremptory tone—the
tone of a man whose questions were habitually pointed and
who was capable of much insistence.
She answered by a ready question, ‘How did you know I
was here?’
‘Miss Stackpole let me know,’ said Caspar Goodwood.
‘She told me you would probably be at home alone this eve-
ning and would be willing to see me.’
‘Where did she see you—to tell you that?’
‘She didn’t see me; she wrote to me.’ Isabel was silent;
neither had sat down; they stood there with an air of defi-
ance, or at least of contention. ‘Henrietta never told me she
was writing to you,’ she said at last. ‘This is not kind of her.’
‘Is it so disagreeable to you to see me?’ asked the young
man.
‘I didn’t expect it. I don’t like such surprises.’
‘But you knew I was in town; it was natural we should
meet.’
‘Do you call this meeting? I hoped I shouldn’t see you. In
so big a place as London it seemed very possible.’

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