ISOBEL (distressed). Oh, don’t! It isn’t fair.
(ROYCE, his eyes still on her, begins the refrain again.)
ISOBEL (smiling sadly). Oh, no, Mr. Royce! That’s all over. I’m an old woman now.
ROYCE (rather ashamed). I’m sorry.... Yes, you’re older now.
ISOBEL. Twenty and thirty-eight—there’s a world of difference between them.
[205]ROYCE. I’m forty.
ISOBEL (smiling). Don’t ask me to pity you. What’s forty to a man?
ROYCE. You’re right. In fact I’m masquerading here to-day as one of the younger writers.
ISOBEL (glad to be off the subject of herself). Father likes to feel that he is admired by the younger writers. So if you’ve brought all their signatures with you, he’ll be pleased to see you, Mr. Royce. I had better give you just one word of warning. Don’t be too hard on the 1863 volume.
ROYCE. I shan’t even mention it.