continued to gaze out
of the window after the footman had retired. It was only when she had
heard the door close behind the person who presently entered that she
looked round.

Caspar Goodwood stood there--stood and received a moment, from head to
foot, the bright, dry gaze with which she rather withheld than offered
a greeting. Whether his sense of maturity had kept pace with Isabel's
we shall perhaps 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 appearance 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 encouragement to an easy view of their
situation. She had reasoned the matter well out, making it perfectly
clear that she broke no faith and falsified no contract; but for all
this she was afraid of her visitor. She was ashamed of her fear; but she
was devoutly thankful there was nothing else to be ashamed of. He looked
at her with his stiff insistence, an insistence in which there was such
a want of tact; especially when the dull dark beam in his eye rested on
her as a physical weight.

"No, I didn't feel that; I couldn't think of you as dead. I wish I
could!" he candidly declared.

"I thank you immensely."