Her presence proved somehow less irreducible
to soft particles than Ralph had expected in the natural
perturbation of his sense of the perfect solubility of that of his
cousin; for the correspondent of the Interviewer prompted mirth in
him, and he had long since decided that the crescendo of mirth
should be the flower of his declining days. Henrietta, on her side,
failed a little to justify Isabel's declaration with regard to her
indifference to masculine opinion; for poor Ralph appeared to have
presented himself to her as an irritating problem, which it would be
almost immoral not to work out.
"What does he do for a living?" she asked of Isabel the evening of
her arrival. "Does he go round all day with his hands in his pockets?"
"He does nothing," smiled Isabel; "he's a gentleman of large
leisure."
"Well, I call that a shame- when I have to work like a
car-conductor," Miss Stackpole replied. "I should like to show him
up."
"He's in wretched health; he's quite unfit for work," Isabel urged.
"Pshaw! don't you believe it. I work when I'm sick," cried her
friend. Later, when she stepped into the boat on joining the
water-party, she remarked to Ralph that she supposed he hated her
and would like to drown her.
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