“Ah, they’re part of the comedy. You others are spectators.”
“Do you call it a comedy, Isabel Archer?” Henrietta rather grimly asked.
“The tragedy then if you like. You’re all looking at me; it makes me uncomfortable.”
Henrietta engaged in this act for a while. “You’re like the stricken deer, seeking the innermost shade. Oh, you do give me such a sense of helplessness!” she broke out.
“I’m not at all helpless. There are many things I mean to do.”
“It’s not you I’m speaking of; it’s myself. It’s too much, having come on purpose, to leave you just as I find you.”
“You don’t do that; you leave me much refreshed,” Isabel said.
“Very mild refreshment—sour lemonade! I want you to promise me something.”
“I can’t do that. I shall never make another promise. I made such a solemn one four years ago, and I’ve succeeded so ill in keeping it.”
“You’ve had no encouragement. In this case I should give you the greatest. Leave your husband before the worst comes; that’s what I want you to promise.”