There was no excitement in his way of uttering these confessions, but he began reflectively and ended in a grave bitterness.
“I think I know something of that,” Isabel said in return. “I, too, am much subject to moods.”
“But they do not affect the even tenor of your life,” said Kingcote. “They do not drive you to take one day an irrevocable step which you will repent the next. They have not made your life a failure.”
“Have they done so in your case?” Isabel asked, with a look of serious sympathy. “Pray remember your admission that you have not yet thirty years.”
“The tale of my years is of small account. I shall not change. I know myself, and I know my future.”
“That you cannot. And, from what you have told me, I think your present mode of life most unfortunate, most ill-chosen.”
There was a shadow at the window, and Ada re-entered the room.
“Won’t you let us see the sketch that was spoken of?” asked Mrs. Clarendon, turning to her.
“I don’t know where to find it at present,” Ada replied, moving to a seat in a remote part of the room.
“Do you think of living in that cottage through the winter?” Isabel asked of Kingcote, when there had been silence for a moment.