rey!
Thirty-two!"

And I was too stupid, or too wise, to tell her that she did not look
it.

"I do not know," I said instead, "why you should have turned against
me then, and remembered so long a mere boyish jest; for I thought we
were to be good friends always--as we had been--and never dreamt that
a few hairpins could make us different."

Isabella sat with her still, white hands clasped in her lap, and
looked towards the gate that had caused this childish breach; but I
could not see the expression on her face.

"My father," I went on, determined to speak out that which was in my
mind, "had no business to make such a will, which could only lead to
trouble. And I should have been a scoundrel had I sacrificed your
happiness to my own cupidity--or, rather, had I attempted to do so.
You might have thought it your duty to take me, Isabella, had I asked
you to, for the sake of the money--though you have always spared me
any doubts as to your opinion of me. You have always known my faults,
and been less charitable towards them than anyone else. I should have
been a scoundrel indeed had I asked you to sacrifice yourself."

She sat quite still, and was breathing quietly now.

"So I came to talk it over with you--as old friends, as if we were two
men."

"Which we are not," put in Isabella, with her bitter laugh; and God
knows what she meant.

"We were placed in an impossible position by being thus asked to marry
against our will. I did not ever think of you in that way--think of
loving you, I mean. And you have made it plain enough, of course, that
you do not love me. On the contrary--"

"Of course," she echoed, in a queer, tired voice. "On the contrary."

I somehow came to a stop, and sat mutely seeking words. At last,
however, I broke the silence.

"Then," I said, making an effort to speak lightly and easily, "we
understand each other now."--

"Yes," she answered; "we understand each other now."

I rose, for there seemed nothing more to be said, and yet feeling that
I was no further on--that there was something yet misunderstood
between us.

"And we are friends again, Isabella."

I held out my hand, and, after a momentary pause, she placed her
fingers in it. They were cold.--"Yes, I suppose so," she said, and her
lips were quivering.

I left her slowly, and with a feeling of reluctance. My way lay over
the gate, where fourteen years earlier I had made that mistake. As I
climbed it, I looked back. Isabell