"She has not asked me. I wrote to her I was coming, and she
answered that she would engage a room for me at a pension. She gave no
reason."
The Countess listened with extreme interest. "The reason's
Osmond," she pregnantly remarked.
"Isabel ought to make a stand," said Miss Stackpole. "I'm afraid she
has changed a great deal. I told her she would."
"I'm sorry to hear it; I hoped she would have her own way. Why
doesn't my brother like you?" the Countess ingenuously added.
"I don't know and I don't care. He's perfectly welcome not to like
me; I don't want every one to like me; I should think less of myself
if some people did. A journalist can't hope to do much good unless
he gets a good deal hated; that's the way he knows how his work goes
on. And it's just the same for a lady. But I didn't expect it of
Isabel."
"Do you mean that she hates you?" the Countess enquired.
"I don't know; I want to see. That's what I'm going to Rome for."
"Dear me, what a tiresome errand!" the Countess exclaimed.
"She doesn't write to me in the same way; it's easy to see there's a
difference. If you know anything," Miss Stackpole went on, "I should
like to hear it beforehand, so as to decide on the line I shall take.
Pages:
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793