"I could have believed Edgar capable of such a piece of folly, but not you," grumbled Mr. Ford.
"I am sorry to make myself disagreeable, but I fear I am one of the self-opinionated people who think they know their own business best."
"And I suppose you won't tell me what you mean to do with the sacrificial proceeds of your first book. You cannot leave them with the publishers. I don't know what your royalty on Shams and Shadows was; but, however small, you must do something with it." Mr. Ford spoke with irritation, for he was a man of business.
"You think I am bound to accept the minor profits, you mean. My father has a great sermon on that subject—but he spells it 'with a difference'."
"A poor joke is no substitute for a plain answer, Paul."
"Do you remember the lady who was afraid she had asked an indiscreet question of Talleyrand, and was told that a question is never indiscreet but an answer may be?"
"You have not yet outgrown your quixotism, I see, my dear boy."
"Not I; and I happen to be suffering from a pretty sharp attack of it just now, brought on, I suppose, by fine weather and flattery judiciously blended. So you must bear with my youthful follies."
"I could bear with a great deal from such a clever man as that," said Mr. Ford to himself, after he had parted from Paul. "He'll make a name in the world which men will remember; and that Carnaby girl was a fool to throw up her chance of bearing it!"
So gradually peace—and something akin to happiness—"slid into the soul" of Paul Seaton. In spite of all that had happened, he believed that Isabel—in her heart of hearts—really cared for him, and that he was the only man who could completely satisfy her; and he knew beyond a doubt that she was the only woman who could ever satisfy him. Surely it would all come right in the end, he thought; it was against every principle of political economy that so much mutual devotion should be wasted.