CHAPTER XVII.

Vernacre Park.

Trim the shrubs and mow the grass, Roll the alleys shady, Make the ways where she will pass Fitter for my lady.

There was a large house-party at Vernacre Park at Easter, to meet Miss Carnaby, who had just become engaged to the host, Lord Wrexham. Old Lady Wrexham played the part of hostess--a most stately and chilly dame, whom Isabel could not endure; and, in addition to the party from Elton, the company included the Esdailes, Lord Robert Thistletown and Mr. Madderley, besides sundry, uneventful persons, whom nobody took the trouble to differentiate.

Isabel had been in a most reckless mood ever since she accepted Lord Wrexham; she had definitely decided to stifle the romantic, and to develop the worldly, side of her character; and--having made up her mind to permanently adopt the _rôle_ of a shallow smart woman--she almost overdid her part in her anxiety to do herself injustice. It certainly was a triumphal procession for her, this visit to Vernacre as its future mistress; for Vernacre was one of the finest residences in the Midlands.

As they were sitting at lunch on Good Friday, Lady Esdaile remarked: "Isn't it funny how hungry going to church always makes one?"

"I never have recourse to those artificial aids to appetite," murmured Madderley.

"I'm always ravenous on Sundays," continued Lady Esdaile, "and my appetite has evidently mistaken to-day for a Sunday."

"A pardonable error," replied the artist, "for my intellectual powers have fallen into it, too."

"I am glad that you are hungry, Lady Esdaile," said the hostess, "but not surprised, for Vernacre is always considered a peculiarly invigorating place; the situation is salubrious, and the subsoil old red sandstone. I never feel so well anywhere as I do at Vernacre."

"I am always hungry in the country and thirsty in London," continued Lady Esdaile, "and that is why I am so much sorrier for poor people in the country than in town; it must be so horrid to feel hungry and have nothing to eat, don't you know?"

"It must indeed," agreed Lord Wrexham; "and I have often wondered that the health of the lower classes is not even more seriously impaired than it is, considering that they must frequently be compelled to leave their hunger only partially satisfied, if at all."

"I daresay they enjoy it," exclaimed Isabel, "I remember that Aunt Caroline and I were once kept stuck on a journey for hours, far away from any station, and we had nothing to eat or drink save a small bottle of cough-syrup she happened to have in her dressing-bag. We had to take occasional nips at that; and because it was scarce we thought it delicious. I never was addicted to cough-syrup before, but since then I have preferred it to champagne."

"Perhaps it was made palatable on purpose," suggested Lord Wrexham, "some of those patent medicines are often far from repulsive to the taste."

"Oh! no; it was nasty enough really," replied Isabel; "but poverty made it sweet. And I believe poor people get lots of treats like that."

Lord Wrexham shook his head. "I fear you are right, and that the poor are too fond of taking quack doses not recommended by the faculty. It is a bad habit, but I presume that economy is their motive."

"I didn't mean that; I only meant that when you are poor, life must be like one everlasting picnic. I once wanted to be poor myself, I thought it would be such fun."

"I once was poor," said Madderley, "and I am bound to admit that the joke fell short of your expectations, Miss Carnaby."

Isabel helped herself to plovers' eggs. "I felt I was foolish at the time, and I prayed for more wisdom."

"It is always safe to pray for the inevitable," said the artist, "it strengthens faith without incommoding Providence."

"Having got wisdom, I now pray for the rest of life's good things, like Solomon--riches and honours and fine clothes, and horses and carriages _en suite_."

"I never pray for what I see in the shop-windows," said Madderley; "I choose what I think will suit me, and know that it will be put down in my bill."

Isabel's lip curled. "You are very _bourgeois_ in your ideas."

"I don't think so; I am merely honest with myself, and do not call transactions providential which are merely commercial. The temple and the money-changers should be kept far apart."

"I think, Madderley, that you misunderstand Miss Carnaby," said Lord Wrexham, in his slow, kind way as he smiled indulgently upon Isabel, "she does not really mean that she would ask Providence for things with which her tradesman could supply her."

"Of course I shouldn't pray for what I could pay for," added Isabel.

The artist bowed. "If I have misunderstood Miss Carnaby I humbly beg her pardon. By the way," he continued, "I once heard a story of a very devout Cornish wrecker, who never retired to rest, without praying for a storm. That always appeals to my sense of humour."

"Were his prayers answered?" asked Isabel.

"There were always plenty of wrecks, if that is what you mean."

"The wreckers were a terrible people," said Lord Wrexham, "and it was a terrible state of society which made such things possible."

"It is a comfort to think that these customs were confined to Cornwall and the last century," said Isabel.

"Were they?" asked Madderley.

"I think so," replied Lord Wrexham, "of course one has heard of wrecks and salvage on other shores; but I believe that the custom of deliberately causing wrecks by means of false lights was peculiar to Cornwall."

"I hope you are right," said the artist, "I cannot, of course, give names or dates, but I have an idea that I have heard of cases of cruel and avoidable wrecks in other counties than Cornwall, and considerably later than the last century."

"Indeed! I had believed that such savagery was extinct in England. I suppose, however, that the love of gain was the motive now as then?" And his lordship looked quite distressed.

"And the love of excitement."

"Dear me, how shocking!"

"Such things are shocking," agreed Madderley; "and doubly shocking to those who have witnessed their effects."

Isabel laughed a hard little laugh. "Perhaps Mr. Madderley will make use of his artistic power to describe some of these harrowing spectacles."

"I shall do nothing of the kind, dear lady; such descriptions would not be fit for pretty ears. I believe even the wreckers themselves would rather not see the consequences of their cruelty; therefore such things should be kept from the knowledge of refined and tender-hearted women, whose nature it is to be kind and pitiful."

"You are quite right, Madderley," said Lord Wrexham approvingly, "descriptions of horrors and cruelties are most unfit for women's ears, in my opinion."

But Isabel still looked defiant. "Perhaps, then, Mr. Madderley will tell us where these modern and fiendish wreckers are to be found."

The artist strolled to the sideboard to cut himself some ham. "On the sea-coast of Bohemia, and thereabouts."

"Don't take any notice of him, Wrexham," said Isabel petulantly; "he is only making up, just to irritate me."

Lord Wrexham was surprised. "Why, Isabel, what is the matter with you? You and Madderley used to be such friends."

"I know we used; but friendships don't wear for ever, any more than clothes."

"I have always noticed," remarked Madderley, "that the untried friendships are those which last the longest."

"What is that you are saying about friendships?" cried Lord Bobby from the other end of the table. The place of honour, to which his rank entitled him, was a grievous burden to this irrepressible youth. "I can give you no end of information on the subject, as Platonic friendship is the line in which I excel."

"I do not believe in Platonic friendships," said Lady Farley, "the woman is all right; but the man always cares too much or too little for the arrangement to be a success."

"You are wrong," cried Lord Bobby, "I have scores in good working order just now, so I speak with authority on the subject. They are all most successful, and I start a new one every other week."

"Which I suppose you call a neo-Platonic friendship," suggested the artist.

"Don't be so horribly clever," replied Lord Bobby, "it gives me the headache, and will undermine your constitution in time."

"My experience of Platonic friendships is that they generally end in the woman's losing her head," remarked Madderley.

"Mine is that they invariably end in the man's losing his temper," added Isabel.

"I notice that, as a rule, the man is either bored to death by the whole thing," said Lady Farley, "or else overdraws his account on the bank of friendship, and is surprised when, in consequence, the bank will not cash his cheques."

"That latter case is more often true of the woman than of the man, I think," replied Madderley.

Lady Farley shook her head. "No; men are much more exacting than women in their friendships--that is to say, if they really care. It seems to me that men either care a great deal about things, or not at all; while women have a regular thermometer of degrees of affection and interest."

"I think you are right there," agreed Lord Wrexham, "men are so much simpler and less complex than women."

"Oh! we are grander altogether," agreed Lord Bobby; "simpler and yet more sublime, don't you know? One cannot help admiring us.

Though on our corns the little spitfires tread, Tobacco-smoke unruffled crowns our head."

Everybody laughed, and Lady Farley continued: "I have studied men carefully for many years, and I feel that I am now qualified to carry on a satisfactory Platonic friendship. But of course, being married, I have not time or inclination for the thing; soldiers don't run out of a battle to try their skill at a shooting-range--they have heavier work on hand."

Sir Benjamin chuckled with delight. "Still, my dear, you can give these young and single persons some of the benefit of your superior wisdom, can't you?"

"Tell us how you would carry on a Platonic friendship, Aunt Caroline," said Violet Esdaile.

"Well, in the first place, I should never argue with a man; men hate it so, and it does no earthly good. In my young days I naturally used to endeavour to prove I was right when I knew I was; but now, when a man puts me straight as to facts of which he is absolutely ignorant, I merely accept his correction, and say I must have been misinformed. Of course I know all the time that I am right and he is wrong, but what does that matter? It is a woman's duty to be socially attractive--not statistically correct."

"And what else should you do, Lady Farley?" asked her host.

"I should never attempt to amend his anecdotes. This is an unpardonable sin. I have known homes broken up and lifelong friendships destroyed, by one person's saying that a thing happened on Thursday, when the _raconteur_ had said Friday; while quarrels to which there could be no reconciliation have ensued from a difference of opinion as to whether A. met B. by the 10.20 or the 10.45 train."

"Lady Farley has studied men to some purpose," said Madderley.

The lady smiled. "There is such a thing as compulsory education."

"Caroline is quite right," agreed Lady Esdaile, "it is never any use arguing with a man. In the first place he is always sure to know better than you do."

"That was not my reason for objecting to the habit," murmured Lady Farley.

"But he always is--that is, if it is anything out of books or newspapers. Of course clothes are a different thing, and there I should be very careful about trusting a man's taste too far. At least their taste is right enough, but they seem to have no proper regard for fashion."

"Perhaps now that Aunt Caroline has taught us how to adapt ourselves to men, Mr. Madderley will teach us how to adapt ourselves to women," suggested Isabel; "for I believe he prides himself on his profound knowledge of, and contempt for, the sex."

"With pleasure. Whenever I am dealing with ladies I take as my guide and watchword the legend painted upon the racks of railway carriages: 'These racks are suited for light articles only, and must not be used for heavy luggage;' and I find this is a most successful prescription. For 'light articles' one must read, pleasure, luxury, admiration, amusement, etc.; and for 'heavy luggage,' sickness, sorrow, love, poverty, and every other adversity."

"I see," said Isabel.

"I once knew a man who put his heavy luggage in the rack, in spite of the printed warning," said the artist, "and it fell through and broke his head; I knew another man who made a similar mistake in dealing with a lady; the consequences were practically the same, only it was his heart instead of his head that was broken."

Isabel's eyes flashed. "I am afraid your friends are not as wise as you are."

"Perhaps not; but I am hoping that they will learn wisdom by experience."

"Now where I find men so difficult as friends," said Isabel, "is that they never will tell you why they are vexed. When a man is out of temper there is no secret about it--he who runs may read, and she who reads had better run away; but the reason for this vexation is kept a profound secret."

"You are quite right there," agreed Lady Farley; "it is an interesting but inexplicable fact. A woman is different; she will probably not show at all that she is annoyed, but if she shows it she will tell you the why and the wherefore."

"That is quite true; my experience of the sex is that when they are angry they do not err on the side of want of frankness," sighed Lord Robert.

"And then men are so jealous and exacting," continued Isabel, "that is where they disgust me."

The artist looked at Isabel curiously, as if by the outward eye he could discover whether she were as heartless as she pretended to be; but her appearance afforded him no clue to the problem. "A man who irritates a woman by showing his jealousy, and destroys her pleasure by such evil tempers, is a fool--and worse than a fool," he said.

"Oh! not worse than a fool."

"You are pleased to be merciful, Miss Carnaby."

"Because there is nothing worse," she added.

"I quite agree with you," said Madderley, "but some men seem to regard all things as patent or copyright, which is manifestly absurd; and men in love are worse in this respect than Platonic friends."

Isabel went on with her lunch while the artist continued: "If a clergyman or a doctor is not able--owing to absence or illness--to do his work, he supplies a _locum tenens_ to take his place. And he is grateful to--instead of offended with--the latter for so doing. Then why cannot a lover pursue the same course, and with the same 'sweet reasonableness,' I want to know?"

"The cases hardly seem to me parallel," said Lord Wrexham, looking puzzled.

"Of course it doesn't do to press a metaphor too far," assented Madderley.

"Another absurd thing about men," Isabel went on, "is that they expect you to like them because they are kind to you, and do what you want; while what you really like them for is the trick of their manner or the colour of their hair."

"I think you are in a minority there, my dear Isabel," said Lady Farley, "as a rule kindness appeals more to a woman than anything. I believe any man could make any woman love him, if he were only kind enough long enough."

"People like us for what we do, and love us for what we are," interpolated Sir Benjamin; "that is my experience."

"I know," agreed Isabel, "therefore we can make people like us but we cannot make them love us."

"That is true of a woman," said Lady Farley, helping herself to strawberries, "but hardly of a man. I still hold that any man can win a woman's love through kindness; and I also hold that external roughness of manner will--in a woman's eyes--counteract the effect of any amount of secret devotion. When all is said and done, we like the men who will dance with us better than the men who would die for us; such is the constitution of the normal female mind."

Isabel tossed her head. "I do not think so."

"But surely you like the people who are kind to you, don't you?" asked her host.

"No; I like people because they are attractive, not because they are kind. I always pity children when they have to kiss grown-ups who have given them presents. If I were a child, I should not want to kiss the lady who had given me the prettiest present, but the lady who had the prettiest face."

"But children are taught to show forth their gratitude not only in their lives but with their lips," suggested the artist.

"It is a senseless plan all the same," laughed Isabel; "I couldn't bear to think that my friends liked me only because I was kind to them."

"I do not think you need distress yourself on that score, dear lady."

"I want people to like me because I am attractive in myself--not because I am amiable."

Mr. Madderley shook his head. "I cannot commend your prudence; for you will probably cease to be attractive when you are about five-and-forty, while you can go on being amiable until you are eighty-nine."

"I don't see that; hundreds of women are attractive long after they are five-and-forty."

"Of course they are; but they generally belong to the plump and amiable school. Tongue is not a dish which improves by keeping, my dear Lady Disdain."

"Wrexham, turn him out of the room, at once," cried Isabel; "he is becoming insufferable!"

"What did he say? I did not hear," inquired the host, who was feeding his dogs at that particular moment.

"He says my tongue is too sharp."

"And he isn't far wrong," sang out Lord Bobby; "if you don't take care you'll be stung to death by your own tongue, like the crocodile or the scorpion or some other old chappie. You should have seen a girl I took in to dinner last week; all through dinner she kept saying, 'Oh, Lord Bobby, how clever you are!' And she never said anything else. Now that is the sort of conversation that men like; it is far better than the dizzying, fizzying stuff that brilliant women treat us to."

"Don't you like the girls whom you think clever?" asked Violet.

"I like the girls who think me clever a long sight better; and I don't believe that this is by any means a peculiar taste."

"Young people think and talk too much about what they like and dislike," said Lady Wrexham, rising from the table, "when I was a girl I knew what people were related to each other, and which families were old and which new; but I did not bother my head about who was attractive and who was amiable and who was neither."

"If you have nothing special to do this afternoon, Thistletown," said Lord Wrexham, "I wish you would drive Madderley in the dog-cart to Sunny Hill; I particularly want him to see the view from there, it is such a fine one and also so typical of this part of the country."

"I could have better shared a better plan," replied Bobby; "but my obliging nature cannot say him nay."

"You can upset him and break all his bones for being so rude to me at lunch," suggested Isabel.

"That would do him no good. You may break, you may shatter his bones if you will, but the outward signs of an overweening vanity and a most unlovable disposition will cling to him still."

Then the party dispersed, and Isabel went with her lover to see some model cottages which he had just built, and which he was particularly anxious to show to her. She listened patiently while he explained all the improvements, and then she said: "I wonder if happiness is to be found in such things as subsoils and artesian wells."

Lord Wrexham looked at his cottages with satisfaction. "Health is to be found in them, and health is a constituent part of happiness."

"Perhaps; of course you couldn't be happy without being healthy; but it doesn't follow that you couldn't be healthy without being happy. I wonder in what happiness really does lie."

"I don't know; I never thought about it."

"But you should think about such things, my dear Wrexham; it is stupid of you not to, you know."

"But I cannot analyze my feelings, as you do; I am not an introspective person."

"I find nothing so interesting as the study of myself," said Isabel.

"That is very likely; but you are an interesting person and I am not; so the analysis of me would prove a most wearisome experiment."

"That has nothing to do with it. The analysis of me is instructive only so far as I am normal, and therefore uninteresting. It shows what human nature is like. When I am original I cease to be interesting from a scientific point of view."

"I am afraid I don't quite follow you."

"Can't you see that in vivisecting a frog, the more common the frog the more instructive is the experiment?"

"Yes; I can see that."

"Then the same principle applies to a woman. But do you mean to tell me you never think about your feelings?" asked Isabel.

"No; I feel them, and that is enough for me."

"That is very tame!"

"You see," explained Lord Wrexham, "I have so many other things to think about. An estate like this requires a good deal of management, and I am so anxious to do my duty by all my tenants and workpeople."

"Do you get really interested in the people about the place, and want to know what they are all thinking and feeling and caring about?"

"Of course not, my dear young lady; but I want them to be comfortable and prosperous, and to regard me as a satisfactory landowner."

They walked on in silence for a short time, and then Isabel said: "Isn't it funny how some people make everything into a treat by just being there?"

"I don't quite understand what you mean, my dearest."

"Don't you know how the mere presence of some people will turn a stuffy little parlour into a fairy palace, and a dusty street into a byway of Paradise?"

"Surely that is somewhat extravagant language," replied Lord Wrexham, "of course I know that some sorts of society are much more congenial than others, but everybody can see that."

"Do you know what it is to feel that life is made up of a lot of strange questions and problems and desires, and that one person is the answer to them all?" persisted Isabel.

"My dearest child, what funny ideas you have! I am afraid that you read too much poetry and fiction, and that it overexcites your brain."

"Oh! I don't read all that in books," replied Isabel scornfully. "I know it of myself; and, by the way, how many selves have you got?"

"How many selves? Why, only one, of course."

"Well, that is very one-sided of you! Now there are five of me, all neatly labelled and scheduled."

"Which are they, I should like to know?" inquired Lord Wrexham.

"Oh! there is my very best ideal self, and my brilliant society self, and my jolly every-day self, and my ill and unhappy self, and the demon."

"What ever do you mean by the demon?"

"I mean me, when I am shallow and selfish and worldly, and say nasty, sharp things, and care for nothing but admiration, and am a regular wretch all round."

"What is the best self like?"

"She learned that the wisdom of this world is foolishness," replied Isabel dreamily, "and she found the key to life's Holy of Holies. Therefore I killed her, because she knew too much. You never met her, and I have forgotten her, for it is nearly two years since she died."

"Really, Isabel, you are a little too prone to let your imagination run away with you. But now I want you to look at this rustic fencing; it is an idea of my own, and is, I think, most effective."

"Oh! it is pretty enough," replied Isabel indifferently.

Lord Wrexham's face fell. "I am so sorry you are not more pleased with it, my darling; I designed it for you, and I did so hope that it would give you pleasure. Is there anything about it you would like different?"

"Oh! no; it is all right."

"You see, all my delight now in improving Vernacre is in making it fitter for you. It could never be worthy of such a mistress as it will have; but I hardly let a day pass without doing something to make it a little more meet for your acceptance."

"It is very good of you," said Isabel gently, as they turned away.

"Not at all; it is mere selfishness on my part, as my greatest pleasure lies in pleasing you. I trust you will not hesitate to mention anything that you would like different, either in my home or in myself; and, if alteration is possible, it shall be made."

"Do you mean you would let me tell you of your faults?"

"Of course I would," replied Lord Wrexham; "and, what is more, I would try to correct them."

"I once invented a game where every member of the company was told of one fault by the rest of the party unanimously, on condition he or she promised to amend it and not to be offended."

Lord Wrexham opened a gate leading into the park. "Was it a successful pastime?"

"It ought to have been, but somehow it wasn't. It led to strained relations all round, and yet nobody seemed to have a fault the less in consequence. Now, I played it in the proper spirit, and I cured two bad faults of my own."

"It was very impertinent of anybody to dare to tell you of your faults, Isabel; and if I had been there I would have told them so."

"No; it wasn't at all impertinent; it was only part of the game. I forget what my faults were," continued Isabel musingly, "but I know I cured them both."

"I wish you would play that game with me, and tell me where you would like me to be different," said Lord Wrexham rather wistfully. "I know I am stupid, and not quick at understanding things, but that seems more a misfortune than a fault; at any rate I don't get over it, and no one but myself knows how hard I try. But anything that I could alter, I gladly would, to make life with me less dull for you, my dear."

"You haven't any faults, Wrexham; not a single one."

Lord Wrexham smiled with pleasure.

"But your virtues are rather overcrowded, like the shrubs at Elton," continued Isabel, "and would be all the better for a little thinning out."

Lord Wrexham's smile faded. Isabel had a nasty trick of wiping the smiles clean off the faces of those that loved her too much. However, when she saw that she had hurt her lover, she was seized with compunction, and began to make amends.

"I say, Wrexham, what is that funny little windmill for at the foot of the hill?" She knew well enough what it was for before she asked, but she also knew that Lord Wrexham would delight in explaining it.

His face brightened at once. "It is a new arrangement for pumping water up to the house. You see, Isabel, we have hitherto drunk the water from a well in the courtyard, which did quite nicely for us. But when I found that you were coming to live at Vernacre I had it analyzed; and discovered that, although there was nothing much amiss with it, it was not quite so pure as the water from a spring at the foot of that hill. So, by means of a most ingenious arrangement, the wind pumps all the drinking water for the house up from that one spring, which I have proved is the purest water on the estate."

"How good you are to me, my dear old boy!"

"I want you to have the best of everything, and I mean to give it you as far as I can. But I should like to explain the mechanism of this arrangement to you, Isabel. It is a most clever contrivance, I think, and repays examination."

So Isabel listened patiently while her lover expounded to her how the wind turned the wheel which pumped the water up to the house, so that much work was accomplished by means of a very little outlay.

"You are so awfully clever at things of this kind," she said, as they strolled homewards, "I am sure you have literally more brains in your little finger than most men have in their stupid heads."

"I have not many brains anywhere, I am afraid; but as I am always thinking about you and wondering what I can do for your comfort and pleasure, I should indeed be a poor fool if I did not hit upon the right thing sometimes." And Lord Wrexham sighed.

"You very often hit upon the right thing. I don't think you have any idea what a comfort you are to me, Wrexham. When my head and heart are tired out they always come back to you, as if you were a patent soothing syrup or a provision for old age. I call you my 'rest cure'."

"I am thankful if I bring you any happiness, my child, in return for the abundant measure you have bestowed upon me in promising to be my wife; yet I am but a dull companion for such a brilliant young creature as yourself. However, when you come to Vernacre for good, we will always have the house full of young people, so that you will never have time to be bored by your slow old coach of a husband."

"You are not a slow old coach," cried Isabel indignantly, "you are the best and dearest man in the whole world!"

"Am I?--well, it is heaven to me to hear you say so, whether you really think it or not. Not that I mean you would ever say what you did not know to be true; but you are sometimes carried away by your warm feelings to say things which exceed the convictions of your cooler moments."

"I know I am," replied Isabel, "but I always try to be frank and truthful."

Her lover smiled rather sadly. "My dear, it is very noble of you to be so transparent, and never to pretend you care more for me than you really do; and my rational side commends and admires this uprightness. But now and then I am weak enough to wish that you would let me deceive myself a little, and not be so conscientious in your desire to enlighten me. A fool's paradise may be a poor thing; but it is better than no paradise at all."

Isabel's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Wrexham, how horrid I must have been to you!"

"Never horrid to me, Isabel--never anything but charming and fascinating and altogether delightful. It is I who am to blame for being somewhat tiresome and exacting. Oh! my dear, do you think I don't know how dull and stupid I am, and how tired you must sometimes feel of my society? Yet I am such an old fool that I like to pretend to myself that I am to you in some measure what you are to me, though I know perfectly well all the time that such an idea is absurd and impossible in the extreme."

"What is it in me that makes you like me so much?" asked Isabel abruptly, as they were watching the sun set behind the distant hills.

"No special thing; I love the whole of you, and your faults as well as your virtues."

"But don't you like me better in some moods than in others?"

"I don't think so; I always love you just the same; whatever you do or say, you are you, and that is enough for me."

"But doesn't it make any difference when I am nasty to you?" persisted Isabel.

"It makes all the difference between happiness and misery, but it does not make any difference in my love for you."

"You are a good man, Wrexham!"

"My dear, there is no goodness or badness in it. I am simply made like that, and I cannot help it."

"Nevertheless, you are perfect, whether it is your own doing or Nature's."

"If I were ten times better than I am, I should still not be half good enough for you."

"You'd always take my part, whoever I quarrelled with, wouldn't you?" coaxed Isabel, sticking a primrose, she had just gathered, into her lover's button-hole.

"Always."

"Even if I were wrong?"

"Exactly the same whether you were wrong or whether you were right; the merits of the case would have no effect upon me."

Isabel patted his arm. "Now that is what I call real justice. It is qualities such as this that make women love and respect men."

Lord Wrexham laughed, and then said: "Here we are at the peach-house. I want you to come and see some improvements I have just carried out in the stove, which I think will ensure our getting twice as many peaches as we have ever had out of this house before."

Whereupon his lordship plunged into a minute description of the methods whereby his peaches were to be prematurely ripened, and Isabel gave him her most satisfying attention.

When the walk was over, Isabel went to her own room and looked at herself in the glass. "Miss Carnaby," she said, "you are not really a handsome woman, and Fate has given you far more than you deserve. In exchange for a pretty wit and an indifferent face and a most admirable figure, you will receive a coronet and twenty thousand a year, with the best husband in the world thrown in as a perquisite, like a present of books with so many pounds of tea. So the least you can do for the next forty years is to talk pleasantly and intelligently about windmills and peach-houses and such like interesting subjects, remembering that--if you'd had your own foolish way--you might instead have been living upon a few paltry hundreds a year, with a jealous and bad-tempered young man who couldn't keep a civil tongue in his head for two days together."

For the rest of the Easter recess Isabel made herself specially charming to her host. She was flattered and petted on all sides, and he was the cause of it, so she felt accordingly grateful. The praise which is always accorded to the woman who doeth well to herself was hers in full measure just then; and it put her in a good humour with herself and with her world. She tried her utmost not to be bored when Wrexham talked to her about the things in which he was interested, and she succeeded, in so far as she hid her boredom from everybody in the house except herself and him; but, clever as she was, she was not quite clever enough for that.