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sense of maturity had kept pace with Isabel’s we shall per-
haps presently ascertain; let me say meanwhile that to her
critical glance he showed nothing of the injury of time.
Straight, strong and hard, there was nothing in his appear-
ance that spoke positively either of youth or of age; if he
had neither innocence nor weakness, so he had no practical
philosophy. His jaw showed the same voluntary cast as in
earlier days; but a crisis like the present had in it of course
something grim. He had the air of a man who had travelled
hard; he said nothing at first, as if he had been out of breath.
This gave Isabel time to make a reflexion: ‘Poor fellow, what
great things he’s capable of, and what a pity he should waste
so dreadfully his splendid force! What a pity too that one
can’t satisfy everybody!’ It gave her time to do more-to say
at the end of a minute: ‘I can’t tell you how I hoped you
wouldn’t come!’
‘I’ve no doubt of that.’ And he looked about him for a
seat. Not only had he come, but he meant to settle.
‘You must be very tired,’ said Isabel, seating herself, and
generously, as she thought, to give him his opportunity.
‘No, I’m not at all tired. Did you ever know me to be
tired?’
‘Never; I wish I had! When did you arrive?’
‘Last night, very late; in a kind of snail-train they call
the express. These Italian trains go at about the rate of an
American funeral.’
‘That’s in keeping—you must have felt as if you were
coming to bury me!’ And she forced a smile of encourage-
ment to an easy view of their situation. She had reasoned the

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