Isaura in her excitement did not notice the effect on her English visitor. She could not have divined such an effect as possible. On the contrary, even subordinate to her joy at the thought that she had not mistaken the instincts which led her to a nobler vocation than that of the singer, that the cage-bar was opened, and space bathed in sunshine was inviting the new-felt wings,—subordinate even to that joy was a joy more wholly, more simply woman’s. “If,” thought she, in this joy, “if this be true, my proud ambition is realized; all disparities of worth and fortune are annulled between me and him to whom I would bring no shame of mesalliance!” Poor dreamer, poor child!
“You will let me see what you have written,” said Rameau, somewhat imperiously, in the sharp voice habitual to him, and which pierced Graham’s ear like a splinter of glass.
“No, not now; when finished.”
“You will finish it?”
“Oh, yes; how can I help it after such encouragement?” She held out her hand to Savarin, who kissed it gallantly; then her eyes intuitively sought Graham’s. By that time he had recovered his self-possession. He met her look tranquilly, and with a smile; but the smile chilled her, she knew not why.
The conversation then passed upon books and authors of the day, and was chiefly supported by the satirical pleasantries of Savarin, who was in high good-spirits.
Graham, who, as we know, had come with the hope of seeing Isaura alone, and with the intention of uttering words which, however guarded, might yet in absence serve as links of union, now no longer coveted that interview, no longer meditated those words. He soon rose to depart.
“Will you dine with me to-morrow?” asked Savarin. “Perhaps I may induce the Signorina and Rameau to offer you the temptation of meeting them.”
“By to-morrow I shall be leagues away.”
Isaura’s heart sank. This time the manuscript was fairly forgotten.