I bent down, and I raised her hands to my lips and kissed them.
"My dear child," I said, "don't forget that I am your guardian, and I have to think for you—a long way ahead. As for the rest, I have not a single thought or hope in life which is not concerned for your happiness."
"I like that better," she murmured; "but—you are very fond of my hands."
Fortunately the cab pulled up with a jerk. I paid the man, and we commenced to climb up the stone steps towards our rooms. Isobel, who was generally a couple of flights ahead, slipped her hand through my arm and leaned heavily upon me.
"Arnold," she whispered, "why would you not read your story to me. Tell me, please!"
"My dear child!" I exclaimed, "what made you think of that just now?"
She leaned forward. I think that she was trying to look into my face.
"Never mind! Please tell me," she begged.
"I will read it some day," I answered. "It is so incomplete. I think I shall have to rewrite it."
She shook her head.