“No, not in the same degree. I thought this profession would do as well as another. I believe I even had philanthropic glows now and then, and perhaps even a period of scientific interest. The latter did not survive the steps from theory to practice; the former——”
He made a motion with his hand, and smiled.
“The very last thing I should ever have associated with you,” remarked Isabel, with puzzled thoughtfulness.
“A philanthropic zeal?”
“I didn’t mean that, but I am not sure that I mayn’t include it. Please go on.”
Kingcote was resting his forehead on his palm; he resumed without raising his eyes.
“My father practised at Norwich—by-the-bye, our friend, Sir Thomas Browne’s city. When he died, I went to live with my mother for a while; my sister had just married and gone to London, and a sister of my fathers shared our house. I thought of all sorts of things—law, literature (of course), even commerce. For I had a small capital—some shares in a joint-stock bank; they gave me a sufficient income, and I could realise when I needed. For a year I made plans; then of a sudden I found myself in Paris. You know the Continent?”
“I was in the Riviera for a month, some years ago,” Isabel answered, without interest. “I can’t afford to go abroad now.”
It was the second time she had used this phrase. Kingcote watched her countenance.
“What took you to Paris?” she inquired, ignoring the diversion.