Isabel watched her cousin as to see how far he would go. “I refused him because he was too perfect then. I’m not perfect myself, and he’s too good for me. Besides, his perfection would irritate me.”
“That’s ingenious rather than candid,” said Ralph. “As a fact you think nothing in the world too perfect for you.”
“Do you think I’m so good?”
“No, but you’re exacting, all the same, without the excuse of thinking yourself good. Nineteen women out of twenty, however, even of the most exacting sort, would have managed to do with Warburton. Perhaps you don’t know how he has been stalked.”
“I don’t wish to know. But it seems to me,” said Isabel, “that one day when we talked of him you mentioned odd things in him.” Ralph smokingly considered. “I hope that what I said then had no weight with you; for they were not faults, the things I spoke of: they were simply peculiarities of his position. If I had known he wished to marry you I’d never have alluded to them. I think I said that as regards that position he was rather a sceptic. It would have been in your power to make him a believer.”
“I think not. I don’t understand the matter, and I’m not conscious of any mission of that sort. You’re evidently disappointed,” Isabel added, looking at her cousin with rueful gentleness. “You’d have liked me to make such a marriage.”
“Not in the least. I’m absolutely without a wish on the subject. I don’t pretend to advise you, and I content myself with watching you—with the deepest interest.”
She gave rather a conscious sigh. “I wish I could be as interesting to myself as I am to you!”
“There you’re not candid again; you’re extremely interesting to yourself. Do you know, however,” said Ralph, “that if you’ve really given Warburton his final answer I’m rather glad it has been what it was. I don’t mean I’m glad for you, and still less of course for him. I’m glad for myself.”
“Are you thinking of proposing to me?”