“Ah, you must never doubt that,” said Isabel.
“Well then, I don’t see what more you ask!”
“It’s not what I ask; it’s what I can give. I don’t think I should suit you; I really don’t think I should.”
“You needn’t worry about that. That’s my affair. You needn’t be a better royalist than the king.”
“It’s not only that,” said Isabel; “but I’m not sure I wish to marry any one.”
“Very likely you don’t. I’ve no doubt a great many women begin that way,” said his lordship, who, be it averred, did not in the least believe in the axiom he thus beguiled his anxiety by uttering. “But they’re frequently persuaded.”
“Ah, that’s because they want to be!” And Isabel lightly laughed. Her suitor’s countenance fell, and he looked at her for a while in silence. “I’m afraid it’s my being an Englishman that makes you hesitate,” he said presently. “I know your uncle thinks you ought to marry in your own country.”
Isabel listened to this assertion with some interest; it had never occurred to her that Mr. Touchett was likely to discuss her matrimonial prospects with Lord Warburton. “Has he told you that?”
“I remember his making the remark. He spoke perhaps of Americans generally.”
“He appears himself to have found it very pleasant to live in England.” Isabel spoke in a manner that might have seemed a little perverse, but which expressed both her constant perception of her uncle’s outward felicity and her general disposition to elude any obligation to take a restricted view.