"No, but those people don't come to dinner with you. I've enjoyed them, of course, but your crowd on Tuesday was quite a different thing—wasn't it now? You only wanted me to fill up a gap, to amuse one of the young women."
"I always want you," said Isabel. "But you aren't willing to come just to please me."
"I can't really please you by boring myself. You must remember that the time I can spend with you is limited. Why should we waste it in things we can't really enjoy, or in discussions like this? If you could be content to let me come just when I'm in the best mood, it would be better for both of us."
"I'm afraid I should see you very little then," said Isabel, with subdued bitterness.
"It must be little, comparatively, in any case. But there's no reason why that little shouldn't be pleasant. Really I can amuse you much better if you let me choose my own times and seasons."
"Amuse! I don't want to be amused!"
"Oh, yes, you do, Isabel," said Basil, laughing. "That's exactly what you want."
She was silent, and a look of deep melancholy shadowed her face. Basil saw it with discomfort, which he did not allow to appear. He began to talk about her plans for the winter, about a book which he was encouraging her to write. She had in mind publishing anonymously a
