Isabel. I happened to mention him because he’s just written again; but I might as well have said the baker or the candlestick-maker. The candlestick-maker—I wonder what he is, by the way? He must have more faith in human nature than the others, for I haven’t heard from him yet. I wonder if there is a Creditor’s Polite Letter-writer which they all consult; their style is so exactly alike. I advise you to pass through New York incognito on your way to Washington; their attentions might be oppressive.
Warland. Confoundedly oppressive. What a dog’s life it is! My poor Isabel—
Isabel. Don’t pity me. I didn’t marry you for a home.
Warland (after a pause). What did you marry me for, if you cared for Oberville? (Another pause.) Eh?
Isabel, Don’t make me regret my confidence.
Warland. I beg your pardon.
Isabel. Oh, it was only a subterfuge to conceal the fact that I have no distinct recollection of my reasons. The fact is, a girl’s motives in marrying are like a passport—apt to get mislaid. One is so seldom asked for either. But mine certainly couldn’t have been mercenary: I never heard a mother praise you to her daughters.
Warland. No, I never was much of a match.
Isabel. You impugn my judgment.
Warland. If I only had a head for business, now, I might have done something by this time. But I’d sooner break stones in the road.