"Don't name this to Boscawen, Isabel: I don't wish him to know my intentions."
"Certainly not—that is, if I can keep it from him; but he manages to find out all my secrets. However, I will try to keep this all to myself."
So did Mrs. Boscawen resolutely intend; but her secret transpired at the touch of her husband's mental wand. Mr. Boscawen began to talk of returning to Brierly, the very evening of the conversation which had taken place between his lady and Clara, and, after retiring for the night, he mentioned his intention of leaving Wetheral the following week. Isabel clasped her hands in alarm.
"Oh, Mr. Boscawen, not so soon! must we return so very soon?"
"Why not, Isabel? are you afraid of the dullness of Brierly?"
"Yes—no," cried Isabel, "but I want to watch Clara, Mr. Boscawen: I want to observe something."
"What is it all about?" asked Mr. Boscawen. "Is your sister engaged in some speculation, or has your mother decided upon any one whom your sister is decreed to captivate? I think I have stumbled upon the truth, Isabel, by your countenance."
"How you find things out, Mr. Boscawen!" cried Isabel, blushing and hesitating; "you never allow me to keep a secret."
"Then there is one, Isabel. Have the kindness to admit me into the mystery: a wife should have no secrets."
"Well, only promise not to tell," said Isabel, awed by her husband's grave manner and remark, "and I will not keep the secret to myself, though I promised to do so."