“Why should _you_ have such thoughts? What has life ever brought you but joy?” “A few things not quite joyful, and which most women would find rather hard to bear. You know nothing of my story? No? Not by chance in talking about me of late? I suppose there has been much talk about me?” “Will you not tell me what it is you speak of? Remember that I talk to no one.” “To be sure. You are so unlike all other men. You are apart in my thoughts--you seem to be in a wholly different world from that I know. Your judgment of me will be sterner than that of mere men of the world, who take self-seeking and dishonour for granted. Yes, it will, it will!” Her breath was caught, and nervous agitation so gained upon her weakness as almost to make her hysterical. Kingcote bent forward and imprisoned one of her hands. “Speak calmly,” he urged, in a voice just above a whisper. “Why do you agitate yourself so? Why should you tell me anything that it is painful to speak of?” His own emotion all but overcame his power of utterance. She did not try to draw away her hand; holding it in one of his, with the other he caressed it soothingly. Isabel smiled at him. “You are deceived in me,” she pursued, becoming quieter by self-yielding. “You see only appearances. This house and all it represents is not mine; I am only allowed to use it and to make a show till the owner claims it: everything belongs to Miss Warren.” A minor emotion like surprise could not affect Kingcote in his present mood. “And I am to judge you sternly for not having told me that?” he asked, his veins on fire from the touch of the hand he held. “Listen to me. When she marries I lose everything, all but an annuity of three hundred pounds. And that will be in a few weeks, as soon as I am strong enough to go in search of a new home.” “Yes? Does _that_ call for my judgment?” She trembled. “I want to show you something, but I cannot rise to get it. Will you go for me? You see the small writing-desk on the further table?” Kingcote rose, but with her hand still in his. He could not release it. She, with eyes turned upwards to regard him, her face flushed, her throat quivering, was as loth to be severed from his grasp. Instead of moving away, he bent and put his lips to her forehead. Then the rose-hue clothed her with maidenhood, her head fell, and he felt the pulse at her wrist leap like flame. “Will you fetch me the desk?” she asked, without meeting his look. He fetched it, and with a key from her pocket Isabel opened it. Below other papers she found an envelope, and from this took a photograph. “Will you look at that?” she said, holding it to him. Kingcote’s face expressed recognition. “This,” he said, “is, I suppose, Miss Warren’s father? The resemblance is very strong.” “It is a portrait of Mr. Clarendon,” was her answer, given in a tone of such cold self-command that Kingcote turned to look at her with a movement of surprise. “Mr. Clarendon?”