"Pardon me; I care so much about it that if I thought it really was a greater pleasure to you to stay in and see Lord Wrexham than to go out with me, I would never ask you to go out with me again. But I don't think so, and that makes all the difference."
"You are jealous of Lord Wrexham; that is the long and short of it," said Isabel.
"Possibly," replied Paul drily.
"I never heard such rubbish!" And Isabel plucked at the rose with impatient fingers.
Paul looked at his watch again. "Just five minutes," he murmured, as if to himself.
"I hate you!" cried Isabel stamping her foot.
"I know; you said so a short time ago, and I told you that your hatred was the best thing in life, if you remember. Repetition is not argument, my dear Isabel."
Isabel did not answer; but, in spite of her hatred, she ran upstairs and put her hat and gloves on, and was down again before the twenty minutes had elapsed. And she did not know that while she was out of the room Paul picked up the remnants of the rose she had played with, and kissed them before he slipped them into his pocket-book.
People generally called Paul Seaton a hard man. They would have changed their opinion if they had seen his face when he kissed Isabel's shattered rose. But Paul was not the sort of man to kiss roses when there was any chance of being seen.
When Isabel came downstairs she looked so nice that Paul pursued the same course of treatment with her that he had pursued with the yellow rose; and with even greater satisfaction, to judge by the expression of his face.