LORD WARBURTON was not seen in Mrs. Osmond's drawing-room for several days, and Isabel could not fail to observe that her husband said nothing to her about having received a letter from him. She could not fail to observe, either, that Osmond was in a state of expectancy, and that though it was not agreeable to him to betray it, he thought their distinguished friend kept him waiting quite too long. At the end of four days he alluded to his absence.

“What has become of Warburton? What does he mean by treating one like a tradesman with a bill?”

“I know nothing about him,” Isabel said. “I saw him last Friday, at the German ball. He told me then that he meant to write to you.”

“He has never written to me.”

“So I supposed, from your not having told me.”

“He's an odd fish,” said Osmond, comprehensively. And on Isabel's making no rejoinder, he went on to inquire whether it took his lordship five days to indite a letter. “Does he form his words with such difficulty?”

“I don't know,” said Isabel. “I have never had a letter from him.”

“Never had a letter? I had an idea that you were at one time in intimate correspondence.”

Isabel answered that this had not been the case, and let the conversation drop. On the morrow, however, coming into the drawing-room late in the afternoon, her husband took it up again.

“When Lord Warburton told you of his intention of writing, what did you say to him?” he asked.

Isabel hesitated a moment. “I think I told him not to forget it.”

“Did you believe there was a danger of that?”

“As you say, he's an odd fish.”

“Apparently he has forgotten it,” said Osmond. “Be so good as to remind him.”

“Should you like me to write to him?” Isabel asked.

“I have no objection whatever.”

“You expect too much of me.”

“Ah yes, I expect a great deal of you.”

“I am afraid I shall disappoint you,” said Isabel.

“My expectations have survived a good deal of disappointment.”