“Oh yes, I’m very angry. I plead guilty to that!”
She turned away from him, walked to the open window and stood a moment looking into the dusky void of the street, where a turbid gaslight alone represented social animation. For some time neither of these young persons spoke; Caspar lingered near the chimney-piece with eyes gloomily attached. She had virtually requested him to go—he knew that; but at the risk of making himself odious he kept his ground. She was far too dear to him to be easily renounced, and he had crossed the sea all to wring from her some scrap of a vow. Presently she left the window and stood again before him. “You do me very little justice—after my telling you what I told you just now. I’m sorry I told you—since it matters so little to you.”
“Ah,” cried the young man, “if you were thinking of me when you did it!” And then he paused with the fear that she might contradict so happy a thought.
“I was thinking of you a little,” said Isabel.
“A little? I don’t understand. If the knowledge of what I feel for you had any weight with you at all, calling it a ‘little’ is a poor account of it.”
Isabel shook her head as if to carry off a blunder. “I’ve refused a most kind, noble gentleman. Make the most of that.”
“I thank you then,” said Caspar Goodwood gravely. “I thank you immensely.”
“And now you had better go home.”
“May I not see you again?” he asked.
“I think it’s better not. You’ll be sure to talk of this, and you see it leads to nothing.”