“My dear Mr. Lacour, I have always disapproved of you—in a measure.”
“Of course; but the measure is extending. There’s something in your tone I don’t like. I always say yours is the one woman’s voice I would walk a mile to hear, and to-day it has lost something of its quality for me.”
“I grieve exceedingly—except that henceforth you will be saved from the terrible temptation to over-exert yourself. But hadn’t we better talk seriously? What can I advise upon?”
“Well, it has come to this. Either I go on to the stage, or I go to Texas. Which do you recommend?”
“Of the two, Texas.”
“That is not complimentary, you know.”
“I only mean it to be sincere. And I think it not unlikely that you would do well in Texas. You need that kind of shaking up.”
“On the other hand, my advantages are thrown away,” remarked Vincent, stroking his chin. He spoke with the completest frankness; it was scarcely possible to call the speech conceited.
“I doubt whether you have any advantages for the stage,” said Isabel gravely.
“But, my dear Mrs. Clarendon————”