_Isabel_. Only this morning you were my supreme court of justice; there was no appeal from your verdict. Not an hour ago you decided a case for me--against myself! And now--. And the worst of it is that it’s not because you’ve changed. How do I know if you’ve changed? You haven’t said a hundred words to me. You haven’t been an hour in the room. And the years must have enriched you--I daresay you’ve doubled your capital. You’ve been in the thick of life, and the metal you’re made of brightens with use. Success on some men looks like a borrowed coat; it sits on you as though it had been made to order. I see all this; I know it; but I don’t _feel_ it. I don’t feel anything... anywhere... I’m numb. (_A pause_.) Don’t laugh, but I really don’t think I should know now if you came into the room--unless I actually saw you. (_They are both silent_.) _Oberville (at length)_. Then, to put the most merciful interpretation upon your epigrams, your feeling for me was made out of poorer stuff than mine for you. _Isabel_. Perhaps it has had harder wear. _Oberville_. Or been less cared for? _Isabel_. If one has only one cloak one must wear it in all weathers. _Oberville_. Unless it is so beautiful and precious that one prefers to go cold and keep it under lock and key. _Isabel_. In the cedar-chest of indifference--the key of which is usually lost. _Oberville_. Ah, Isabel, you’re too pat! How much I preferred your hesitations. _Isabel_. My hesitations? That reminds me how much your coming has simplified things. I feel as if I’d had an auction sale of fallacies. _Oberville_. You speak in enigmas, and I have a notion that your riddles are the reverse of the sphinx’s--more dangerous to guess than to give up. And yet I used to find your thoughts such good reading. _Isabel_. One cares so little for the style in which one’s praises are written. _Oberville_. You’ve been praising me for the last ten minutes and I find your style detestable. I would rather have you find fault with me like a friend than approve me like a _dilettante_. _Isabel_. A _dilettante_! The very word I wanted! _Oberville_. I am proud to have enriched so full a vocabulary. But I am still waiting for the word _I_ want. (_He grows serious_.) Isabel, look in your heart--give me the first word you find there. You’ve no idea how much a beggar can buy with a penny! _Isabel_. It’s empty, my poor friend, it’s empty. _Oberville_. Beggars never say that to each other. _Isabel_. No; never, unless it’s true. _Oberville (after another silence)_. Why do you look at me so curiously? _Isabel_. I’m--what was it you said? Approving you as a _dilettante_. Don’t be alarmed; you can bear examination; I don’t see a crack anywhere. After all, it’s a satisfaction to find that one’s idol makes a handsome _bibelot_. _Oberville (with an attempt at lightness)_. I was right then--you’re a collector?