286 THE POKTKAIT OF A LADY showed nothing of the injury of time. Straight, strong, and fresh, there was nothing in his appearance that spoke posi- tively either of youth or of age ; he looked too deliberate, too serious to be young, and too eager, too active to be old. Old he would never be, and this would serve as a compensation for his never having known the age of chubbiness. Isabel perceived that his jaw had quite the same voluntary look that it had worn in earlier days ; but she was prepared to admit that such a moment as the present was not a time for relaxation. 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 reflection. u Poor fellow," she mentally murmured, " what great things he is capable of, and what a pity that he should waste 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 that you wouldn't come." " I have no doubt of that." And Caspar Goodwood looked about him for a seat. Not only had he come, but he meant to stay a little. " You must be very tired," said Isabel, seating herself, gener- ously, as she thought, to give him his opportunity. " No, I am not at all tired. Did you ever know me to be tired ? " " Never ; I wish I had. When did you arrive here 3 " " 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 is in keeping you must have felt as if you were coming to a funeral," Isabel said, forcing a smile, in order to offer such encouragement as she might to an easy treatment of their situation. She had reasoned out the matter elaborately; she had made it perfectly clear that she broke no faith, that she falsified no contract ; but for all this she was afraid of him. 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 persistency a persistency in which there was almost a want of tact ; especially as there was a dull dark beam in his eye which rested on her almost like a physical weight. " No, I didn't feel that ; because I couldn't think of you as dead. I 'wish I could !" said Caspar Goodwood, plainly. " I thank you immensely." " I would rather think of you as dead than as married to another man."
