“Two months—May, June. It will seem long.”
“Long? Seem long to you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you not glad that I am nearer to you?”
“Very glad. But I wish it were November, with no one else in town, I suppose you will be surrounded with people all the time.”
“No, I shall see very few,” she answered, rather coldly. “I should wish, if I can, to please you.”
There was a struggle in him between obstinate jealousy and self-denial. She looked at him, with a half-suppressed smile about her lips, and the nobler feeling for the moment had its way.
“You will best please me,” he said, with the old tenderness, “by pleasing yourself. You shall see nothing of my foolishness, even if I can’t altogether overcome it; and I will try my hardest to do that, for my own peace indeed. I will bury myself in books.”
Isabel was seeking for words to express what was in her mind.
“You see,” she began at length, “I can’t entirely isolate myself, even if I would. People find out that I am in town, and I cannot forbid them to come and see me. If they come, then I am bound to make calls in return, or to accept invitations.”