“How long does Miss Warren intend to stay in London?” he inquired, as they seated themselves. “Indefinitely.” “Her friends there are congenial?” “Entirely so. Mr. Meres is a clever man; he has more influence over her than any one else.” “You give that as an illustration of his cleverness?” “No; as the result of it. Ada wants intellectual society; she has no pleasure in talking of anything but books and art. And he has always been a sort of guide to her.” “Then you have the prospect of being alone for some time?” “I shall go up as usual in May. Have you read this account of Indian jugglers in the _Cornhill?_” “No, I have not.” “You really should; it is astonishing. Take it away with you; I have done with it.” “Thanks. I will. You wish to be in London in May? Two clear months before then. Could you be ready in, say, three days to go southwards?” Isabel was quite prepared for this, but not for the way in which it was put. A man whose character finds its natural expression in little turns of this kind has terrible advantages over a woman not entirely sure of her own purpose. She looked for a moment almost offended; it was the natural instinctive method of defence. “To go southwards?” she repeated, rolling up the magazine she held. “The yacht is at Marseilles,” Robert pursued, watching her with eyes half-closed. “The Calders have made every preparation, and some friends of theirs, Mr. and Mrs. Ackerton--very nice people--are to be of the party.” She answered nothing. As he waited, coffee was brought in. “I don’t think I know anything of the Ackertons,” Isabel said, naturally, as the servant held the tray. “They are Somersetshire people, I believe. The lady was a Miss Harkle.” “Not a daughter of Canon Harkle?” “Can’t say, I’m sure.” The servant retired, and they sipped coffee in silence. Isabel presently put hers aside; Asquith then finished his cup at a draught, and walked to a table with it. “I don’t think you have any excuse left, have you?” he said, leaning over the back of a chair. “That is a decidedly Oriental way of putting an invitation, Robert.” He was surprised at the amount of seriousness there was in her tone; she would not raise her face, and her cheeks were coloured. “Let me be more English, then. Will you give us--give me--the great pleasure of your company, Isabel?” “But I tell you so clearly that under no circumstances should I leave England just now. It is a little--unkind of you.” “Unkind? It is not exactly a spirit of unkindness that actuates me. It would do you no end of good, and you will find the people delightful.” Probably Isabel had by this time made up her mind, but disingenuousness was a mistake on Robert’s part. He only slipped into it because he began to fear that he had really offended her, and the feeling disturbed his self-possession for the moment.