Isabel fell to smoothing her gloves again; they were long, loose gloves on which she could freely expend herself. Soon, however, she looked up, and then, “Ah, Ralph, you give me no help!” she cried abruptly and passionately.
It was the first time she had alluded to the need for help, and the words shook her cousin with their violence. He gave a long murmur of relief, of pity, of tenderness; it seemed to him that at last the gulf between them had been bridged. It was this that made him exclaim in a moment: “How unhappy you must be!”
He had no sooner spoken than she recovered her self-possession, and the first use she made of it was to pretend she had not heard him. “When I talk of your helping me I talk great nonsense,” she said with a quick smile. “The idea of my troubling you with my domestic embarrassments! The matter’s very simple; Lord Warburton must get on by himself. I can’t undertake to see him through.”
“He ought to succeed easily,” said Ralph.
Isabel debated. “Yes—but he has not always succeeded.”
“Very true. You know, however, how that always surprised me. Is Miss Osmond capable of giving us a surprise?”
“It will come from him, rather. I seem to see that after all he’ll let the matter drop.”
“He’ll do nothing dishonourable,” said Ralph.
“I’m very sure of that. Nothing can be more honourable than for him to leave the poor child alone. She cares for another person, and it’s cruel to attempt to bribe her by magnificent offers to give him up.”
“Cruel to the other person perhaps—the one she cares for. But Warburton isn’t obliged to mind that.”