"Am I?—well, it is heaven to me to hear you say so, whether you really think it or not. Not that I mean you would ever say what you did not know to be true; but you are sometimes carried away by your warm feelings to say things which exceed the convictions of your cooler moments."
"I know I am," replied Isabel, "but I always try to be frank and truthful."
Her lover smiled rather sadly. "My dear, it is very noble of you to be so transparent, and never to pretend you care more for me than you really do; and my rational side commends and admires this uprightness. But now and then I am weak enough to wish that you would let me deceive myself a little, and not be so conscientious in your desire to enlighten me. A fool's paradise may be a poor thing; but it is better than no paradise at all."
Isabel's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Wrexham, how horrid I must have been to you!"
"Never horrid to me, Isabel—never anything but charming and fascinating and altogether delightful. It is I who am to blame for being somewhat tiresome and exacting. Oh! my dear, do you think I don't know how dull and stupid I am, and how tired you must sometimes feel of my society? Yet I am such an old fool that I like to pretend to myself that I am to you in some measure what you are to me, though I know perfectly well all the time that such an idea is absurd and impossible in the extreme."
"What is it in me that makes you like me so much?" asked Isabel abruptly, as they were watching the sun set behind the distant hills.
"No special thing; I love the whole of you, and your faults as well as your virtues."
"But don't you like me better in some moods than in others?"
"I don't think so; I always love you just the same; whatever you do or say, you are you, and that is enough for me."
"But doesn't it make any difference when I am nasty to you?" persisted Isabel.