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herself might know the humiliation of change, might real-
ly, for that matter, come to the end of the things that were
not Caspar (even though there appeared so many of them),
and find rest in those very elements of his presence which
struck her now as impediments to the finer respiration. It
was conceivable that these impediments should some day
prove a sort of blessing in disguise—a clear and quiet har-
bour enclosed by a brave granite breakwater. But that day
could only come in its order, and she couldn’t wait for it
with folded hands. That Lord Warburton should continue
to cherish her image seemed to her more than a noble hu-
mility or an enlightened pride ought to wish to reckon with.
She had so definitely undertaken to preserve no record of
what had passed between them that a corresponding effort
on his own part would be eminently just. This was not, as it
may seem, merely a theory tinged with sarcasm. Isabel can-
didly believed that his lordship would, in the usual phrase,
get over his disappointment. He had been deeply affect-
ed—this she believed, and she was still capable of deriving
pleasure from the belief; but it was absurd that a man both
so intelligent and so honourably dealt with should cultivate
a scar out of proportion to any wound. Englishmen liked
moreover to be comfortable, said Isabel, and there could
be little comfort for Lord Warburton, in the long run, in
brooding over a self-sufficient American girl who had been
but a casual acquaintance. She flattered herself that, should
she hear from one day to another that he had married some
young woman of his own country who had done more to
deserve him, she should receive the news without a pang

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