"
He sat down on a bench, unceremoniously, doggedly, like a man in
trouble; leaning his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor.
"I can't even be glad of that," he said at last, throwing himself back
against the wall; "for that would be an excuse."
She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "An excuse? Must I excuse
myself?"
He paid, however, no answer to the question. Another idea had come
into his head. "Is it my political opinions? Do you think I go too
far?"
"I can't object to your political opinions, because I don't
understand them."
"You don't care what I think!" he cried, getting up. "It's all the
same to you.
Isabel walked to the other side of the gallery and stood there
showing him her charming back, her light slim figure, the length of
her white neck as she bent her head, and the density of her dark
braids. She stopped in front of a small picture as if for the
purpose of examining it; and there was something so young and free
in her movement that her very pliancy seemed to mock at him. Her eyes,
however, saw nothing; they had suddenly been suffused with tears. In a
moment he followed her, and by this time she had brushed her tears
away; but when she turned round her face was pale and the expression
of her eyes strange.
Pages:
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231