Page 481 - the-portrait-of-a-lady

to England, his mother said, instead of coming to Florence;
he had not been there for months, and took no more interest
in the bank than in the state of Patagonia.
‘I’m sorry I waked you,’ Isabel said; ‘you look too tired.’
‘I feel too tired. But I was not asleep. I was thinking of
you.’
‘Are you tired of that?’
‘Very much so. It leads to nothing. The road’s long and I
never arrive.’
‘What do you wish to arrive at?’ she put to him, closing
her parasol.
‘At the point of expressing to myself properly what I
think of your engagement.’
‘Don’t think too much of it,’ she lightly returned.
‘Do you mean that it’s none of my business?’
‘Beyond a certain point, yes.’
‘That’s the point I want to fix. I had an idea you may have
found me wanting in good manners. I’ve never congratu-
lated you.’
‘Of course I’ve noticed that. I wondered why you were
silent.’
‘There have been a good many reasons. I’ll tell you now,’
Ralph said. He pulled off his hat and laid it on the ground;
then he sat looking at her. He leaned back under the pro-
tection of Bernini, his head against his marble pedestal, his
arms dropped on either side of him, his hands laid upon the
rests of his wide chair. He looked awkward, uncomfortable;
he hesitated long. Isabel said nothing; when people were
embarrassed she was usually sorry for them, but she was

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