Isabel laughed, opening and closing the fan. “But Gabriel is a fine fellow,” Kingcote exclaimed. “I wish I possessed a tenth part of his energy. There he works, day after day and week after week, no break, no failing of force or purpose, no holiday even--says he hasn’t time to take one. He will make his way, of course; such a man is bound to. Resolutely he has put away from himself every temptation to idleness. He sees no friends, he cares for no amusement. His power of working is glorious.” “He is not, of course, married?” Kingcote shook his head. “That singleness of purpose--how splendid it is! He and I are opposite poles. I do not know what it is to have the same mind for two days together. My enthusiasm of to-day will be my disgust of to-morrow. I am always seeking, and never finding; I haven’t the force to pursue a search to the end. My moods are tyrannous; my moods make my whole life. Others have intellect; I have only temperament.” There was no excitement in his way of uttering these confessions, but he began reflectively and ended in a grave bitterness. “I think I know something of that,” Isabel said in return. “I, too, am much subject to moods.” “But they do not affect the even tenor of your life,” said Kingcote. “They do not drive you to take one day an irrevocable step which you will repent the next. They have not made your life a failure.” “Have they done so in your case?” Isabel asked, with a look of serious sympathy. “Pray remember your admission that you have not yet thirty years.” “The tale of my years is of small account. I shall not change. I know myself, and I know my future.” “That you cannot. And, from what you have told me, I think your present mode of life most unfortunate, most ill-chosen.” There was a shadow at the window, and Ada re-entered the room. “Won’t you let us see the sketch that was spoken of?” asked Mrs. Clarendon, turning to her. “I don’t know where to find it at present,” Ada replied, moving to a seat in a remote part of the room. “Do you think of living in that cottage through the winter?” Isabel asked of Kingcote, when there had been silence for a moment. “Probably through many winters.” “You remember that there is a considerable difference between our climate at present and what it will be in a couple of months or less.” “I shall lay in a stock of fuel. And it will interest me. I have never spent a winter in the country; I want to study the effects.” “The effects, I fear,” said Isabel, smiling, “are more likely to be of interest to our good friend Doctor Grayling.” “Or even to the respectable undertaker, whose shop is in the High Street?” added Kingcote, with a laugh. “It doesn’t greatly matter.” He rose and walked to the window. “Do you remain here through the winter?” he asked. “I believe so; though I cannot say with certainty. I like to be here for the meets.” “The meets?” “The hunting, you know.” “Ah, you hunt?”