The tone made Isabel angry
rather than touched her; but her anger perhaps was fortunate, inasmuch
as it gave her a further reason for controlling herself It was under
the pressure of this control that she became, after a little,
irrelevant. "When did you leave New York?"
He threw up his head as if calculating. "Seventeen days ago."
"You must have travelled fast in spite of your slow trains."
"I came as fast as I could. I'd have come five days ago if I had
been able."
"It wouldn't have made any difference, Mr. Goodwood," she coldly
smiled.
"Not to you- no. But to me."
"You gain nothing that I see."
"That's for me to judge!"
"Of course. To me it seems that you only torment yourself." And
then, to change the subject, she asked him if he had seen Henrietta
Stackpole. He looked as if he had not come from Boston to Florence
to talk of Henrietta Stackpole; but he answered, distinctly enough,
that this young lady had been with him just before he left America.
"She came to see you?" Isabel then demanded.
"Yes, she was in Boston, and she called at my office. It was the day
I had got your letter."
"Did you tell her?" Isabel asked with a certain anxiety.
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