“Has she injured you?” Ralph asked.
“If she had I shouldn’t mind, and I should never tell you. What I’m afraid of is that she’ll injure herself.”
“I think that’s very possible,” said Ralph.
His companion stopped in the garden-walk, fixing on him perhaps the very gaze that unnerved him. “That too would amuse you, I suppose. The way you do say things! I never heard any one so indifferent.”
“To Isabel? Ah, not that!”
“Well, you’re not in love with her, I hope.”
“How can that be, when I’m in love with Another?”
“You’re in love with yourself, that’s the Other!” Miss Stackpole declared. “Much good may it do you! But if you wish to be serious once in your life here’s a chance; and if you really care for your cousin here’s an opportunity to prove it. I don’t expect you to understand her; that’s too much to ask. But you needn’t do that to grant my favour. I’ll supply the necessary intelligence.”
“I shall enjoy that immensely!” Ralph exclaimed. “I’ll be Caliban and you shall be Ariel.”
“You’re not at all like Caliban, because you’re sophisticated, and Caliban was not. But I’m not talking about imaginary characters; I’m talking about Isabel. Isabel’s intensely real. What I wish to tell you is that I find her fearfully changed.”