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them out of it. I think others also ought to be considerate;
we have each to judge for ourselves. I know you’re consid-
erate, as much as you can be; you’ve good reasons for what
you do. But I really don’t want to marry, or to talk about it
at all now. I shall probably never do it—no, never. I’ve a per-
fect right to feel that way, and it’s no kindness to a woman
to press her so hard, to urge her against her will. If I give
you pain I can only say I’m very sorry. It’s not my fault; I
can’t marry you simply to please you. I won’t say that I shall
always remain your friend, because when women say that,
in these situations, it passes, I believe, for a sort of mockery.
But try me some day.’
Caspar Goodwood, during this speech, had kept his
eyes fixed upon the name of his hatter, and it was not un-
til some time after she had ceased speaking that he raised
them. When he did so the sight of a rosy, lovely eagerness
in Isabel’s face threw some confusion into his attempt to
analyze her words. ‘I’ll go home—I’ll go to-morrowI’ll leave
you alone,’ he brought out at last. ‘Only,’ he heavily said, ‘I
hate to lose sight of you!’
‘Never fear. I shall do no harm.’
‘You’ll marry some one else, as sure as I sit here,’ Caspar
Goodwood declared.
‘Do you think that a generous charge?’
‘Why not? Plenty of men will try to make you.’
‘I told you just now that I don’t wish to marry and that I
almost certainly never shall.’
‘I know you did, and I like your ‘almost certainly’! I put
no faith in what you say.’

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