Isabel looked surprised. This was a funny beginning for a penitential confession. "I don't know what you mean."
"Oh! yes, you do, dear," said Paul patiently.
Isabel was annoyed; she did not like being called over the coals as if she were a tiresome schoolgirl. "Oh! no, I don't. And anyhow I don't flirt worse than half the women in London."
"That is nothing to do with me, Isabel; I don't care a hang how much other women are talked about—I only care for what people say of you. Believe me, I am not blaming you, dear."
"Blaming me?—I should think not!" exclaimed Isabel angrily. How could any self-respecting woman forgive a man who talked about not blaming her?
"I only want to save you from doing things in a moment of temper that I know you will regret afterwards," added Paul.
Isabel's face flushed. "I can take care of myself, thank you; I knew how to behave, even before I had the inestimable privilege of learning manners from Mr. Paul Seaton."
Still Paul kept his temper. "You know, darling, you have been awfully rough on me the last few days; but I'll forgive you like a shot, and never say another word about it, if you will promise not to go on like that again."
"Thank you," said Isabel pertly. "I notice that as long as a clever woman is content to sit at a man's feet and say, 'This is the only man in the whole world,' that man thinks he enjoys the society of clever women; but if the clever woman happens to indulge in an opinion not implanted by him, he calls her unwomanly, and he pines for amiable stupidity."
"That is not fair, Isabel; I detest amiable stupidity."