Isabel wrote in reply to each letter; King-cote would have liked to pay in gold the village postman who brought her writing to his door. She, too, spoke with love’s poetry, and her passion rang true. How strange to pen such words! She had always thought of such forms of expression with raillery, perhaps with a little contempt. Boys and girls of course wrote to each other in this way; it was excusable as long as one did not know the world. For all her knowledge of the world she would not now have surrendered the high privilege of language born of the heart. And in all that she wrote--in her thoughts too--it was her effort to place _him_ in that station of mastery which he would not claim for himself. Was there already self-distrust, and was it only woman’s instinct of subjection? She would have had him more assured of his lordship, would have desired that he should worship with less humility. If a man have not strength, love alone will not suffice to bind a woman to him; she will pardon brutality, but weakness inspires her with fear. Isabel had no such thoughts as these, but perchance had his letters contained one sentence of hard practical planning at the end of all their tenderness she would have found that something which unconsciously she lacked. She had bridged the gulf between him and herself; she was ready to make good words by deed, and, in spite of every obstacle, become his wife; it must be his to bear her manfully from one threshold to the other. Once done, she felt in her soul that she should regret nothing; she loved him with the first love of her life. But his hand must uphold her, guide her, for she would close her eyes when the moment came.... She was alone in Mrs. Stratton’s boudoir next morning, when the door was pushed open; turning, she saw her cousin. “I was told that I might come here in search of you,” said Robert, with his genial smile. “How do you do?” “Very well, thank you. How are you?--as the children answer. But I needn’t ask that; you have a wonderful faculty for looking healthy.” “I don’t think there’s often much amiss with me. Setting aside the chance of breaking my neck over a fence, I think I may promise myself a few more years.” “And the risk of fences you are wise enough to avoid.” “Nothing of the kind. I was hunting in Leicestershire only yesterday.” “Impossible, Robert!” “Indisputable fact----” He had it on his lips to call her “Isabel,” but for some reason checked himself. “A friend of mine took me down and mounted me. I enjoyed it thoroughly.” “But you are becoming an Englishman.” “Was I ever anything else?” “I believe I generally think of you in an Oriental light. At all events, you smoke a hookah, and very much prefer lying on a rug to sitting on a chair.” “The hookah I have abandoned; the rug comes of your imagination.” “Oh dear no; it was one of the first things you said to me when you came to see me last spring in town. It stamped you in my mind for ever.” They laughed.