Page 410 - the-portrait-of-a-lady

most fixtures and ornaments, not subject to vulgar shifting
and removable only by some whole break-up. They talked
of the matters naturally in order; her uncle’s death, Ralph’s
state of health, the way she had passed her winter, her visit
to Rome, her return to Florence, her plans for the summer,
the hotel she was staying at; and then of Lord Warburton’s
own adventures, movements, intentions, impressions and
present domicile. At last there was a silence, and it said so
much more than either had said that it scarce needed his fi-
nal words. ‘I’ve written to you several times.’
‘Written to me? I’ve never had your letters.’
‘I never sent them. I burned them up.’
‘Ah,’ laughed Isabel, ‘it was better that you should do that
than I!’
‘I thought you wouldn’t care for them,’ he went on with a
simplicity that touched her. ‘It seemed to me that after all I
had no right to trouble you with letters.’
‘I should have been very glad to have news of you. You
know how I hoped that—that-’ But she stopped; there would
be such a flatness in the utterance of her thought.
‘I know what you’re going to say. You hoped we should
always remain good friends.’ This formula, as Lord Warbur-
ton uttered it, was certainly flat enough; but then he was
interested in making it appear so.
She found herself reduced simply to ‘Please don’t talk of
all that”; a speech which hardly struck her as improvement
on the other.
‘It’s a small consolation to allow me!’ her companion ex-
claimed with force.

410 The Portrait of a Lady