“Dear Bernard,” she wrote; then paused, resting her head on her hands. Why should he not pass a year so? she was asking herself. The change would be the very thing for him in his deplorable state of mind. There was no harm in her mentioning it, at all events. His moods were impossible to be anticipated; he might be delighted with the chance of going to the East. And it might easily lead to something much better. He would never do anything whilst he remained in London--nothing but suffer. He looked so ill, poor fellow; he would fret himself to death if there came no change. Why not go to Smyrna for a year, until---- She took up her pen again, and at the same moment Mrs. Stratton entered the room. “Oh, you are busy,” she said. “Do you want me?” Isabel asked, without turning. “I was going to read you an account of Fred’s last cricket-match; it’s at full length in a paper I got this morning.” “Only five minutes; I have just to finish a note.” She wrote on. “Dear Bernard, “I have just heard from Mr. Asquith, whom you know, that an English friend of his in Smyrna wants a secretary, an educated man who knows French. What do you think of going out there for a few months? The salary offered is £150 a year, with residence. Could you leave your sister? I should think so, as your lodgings are so comfortable. I am writing in a great hurry, and of course this is only a suggestion. It would be the best thing possible for your health; wouldn’t it? I leave the day after to-morrow; if you reply at once, I shall get your letter before I go. Mr. Asquith’s recommendation will be sufficient. Try and read this scrawl if you can, for it comes from your own “Isabel.” This letter went into the post-bag, and Isabel only thought of it from time to time. On the following afternoon she was again in the arbour, and alone with Asquith. She had found him here talking to Ada, and the latter had subsequently left them. “Miss Warren is--what shall I say?--considerably humanised since I last talked with her,” Robert observed. “I notice it.” When they had exchanged a few words, Isabel spoke of seeking the other people, and rose from her seat. “Will you stay a minute?” he said, quite composedly. She did not resume her seat, and did not reply. “I said something in a jesting way yesterday, which I meant in earnest,” Robert continued, leaning his elbow on a rustic table. “I thought of waiting another year before saying it, but a year after all is a good piece of life.” “Robert, don’t say it!” she broke in. “I cannot answer as you wish me to, and--it is too painful. It _was_ a jest, and nothing more.” He took her hand, and she allowed him to hold it. “Very much more,” he said, with earnestness which did not rob his voice of its pleasant tone. “I am disposed to think that everything has been a jest for a good many years, except that one hope. Do you mean that the hope must be vain?”