THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. Генри Джеймс

of truth in it that would bear consideration. At last she said abruptly: “I don’t see what harm there is in my wishing not to tie myself. I don’t want to begin life by marrying. There are other things a woman can do.”

      “There’s nothing she can do so well. But you’re of course so many-sided.”

      “If one’s two-sided it’s enough,” said Isabel.

      “You’re the most charming of polygons!” her companion broke out. At a glance from his companion, however, he became grave, and to prove it went on: “You want to see life — you’ll be hanged if you don’t, as the young men say.”

      “I don’t think I want to see it as the young men want to see it. But I do want to look about me.”

      “You want to drain the cup of experience.”

      “No, I don’t wish to touch the cup of experience. It’s a poisoned drink! I only want to see for myself.”

      “You want to see, but not to feel,” Ralph remarked.

      “I don’t think that if one’s a sentient being one can make the distinction. I’m a good deal like Henrietta. The other day when I asked her if she wished to marry she said: ‘Not till I’ve seen Europe!’ I too don’t wish to marry till I’ve seen Europe.”

      “You evidently expect a crowned head will be struck with you.”

      “No, that would be worse than marrying Lord Warburton. But it’s getting very dark,” Isabel continued, “and I must go home.” She rose from her place, but Ralph only sat still and looked at her. As he remained there she stopped, and they exchanged a gaze that was full on either side, but especially on Ralph’s, of utterances too vague for words.

      “You’ve answered my question,” he said at last. “You’ve told me what I wanted. I’m greatly obliged to you.”

      “It seems to me I’ve told you very little.”

      “You’ve told me the great thing: that the world interests you and that you want to throw yourself into it.”

      Her silvery eyes shone a moment in the dusk. “I never said that.” “I think you meant it. Don’t repudiate it. It’s so fine!”

      “I don’t know what you’re trying to fasten upon me, for I’m not in the least an adventurous spirit. Women are not like men.”

      Ralph slowly rose from his seat and they walked together to the gate of the square. “No,” he said; “women rarely boast of their courage. Men do so with a certain frequency.”

      “Men have it to boast of!”

      “Women have it too. You’ve a great deal.”

      “Enough to go home in a cab to Pratt’s Hotel, but not more.”

      Ralph unlocked the gate, and after they had passed out he fastened it. “We’ll find your cab,” he said; and as they turned toward a neighbouring street in which this quest might avail he asked her again if he mightn’t see her safely to the inn.

      “By no means,” she answered; “you’re very tired; you must go home and go to bed.”

      The cab was found, and he helped her into it, standing a moment at the door. “When people forget I’m a poor creature I’m often incommoded,” he said. “But it’s worse when they remember it!”