'Too nigh to me, Isabel? Sun or dew, thou fertilisest me! Can sunbeams or drops of dew come too nigh the thing they warm and water? Then sit down by me, Isabel, and sit close; wind in within my ribs,—if so thou canst,—that my one frame may be the continent of two.'
'Fine feathers make fine birds, so I have heard,' said Isabel, most bitterly—'but do fine sayings always make fine deeds? Pierre, thou didst but just now draw away from me!'
'When we would most dearly embrace, we first throw back our arms, Isabel; I but drew away, to draw so much the closer to thee.'
'Well; all words are arrant skirmishers; deeds are the army's self! be it as thou sayest. I yet trust to thee.—Pierre.'
'My breath waits thine; what is it, Isabel?'
'I have been more blockish than a block; I am mad to think of it! More mad, that her great sweetness should first remind me of mine own stupidity. But she shall not get the start of me! Pierre, some way I must work for thee! See, I will sell this hair; have these teeth pulled out; but some way I will earn money for thee!'
Pierre now eyed her startledly. Touches of a determinate meaning shone in her; some hidden thing was deeply wounded in her. An affectionate soothing syllable was on his tongue; his arm was out; when shifting his expression, he whisperingly and alarmedly exclaimed, 'Hark! she is coming.—Be still.'
But rising boldly, Isabel threw open the connecting door, exclaiming half hysterically—'Look, Lucy; here is the strangest husband; fearful of being caught speaking to his wife!'
With an artist's little box before her—whose rattling, perhaps, had startled Pierre—Lucy was sitting mid-way
