'And there is absolutely no sort of reason in my letting myself fall in love with Isabel Bretherton! She has never given me the smallest right to think that she takes any more interest in me than she does in hundreds of people whom she meets on friendly terms, unless it may be an intellectual interest, as Wallace imagines, and that's a poor sort of stepping-stone to love! And if it were ever possible that she should, this afternoon has taken away the possibility.

For, however magnanimous a woman may be, a thing like that rankles: it can't help it.

She will feel the sting of it worse to-morrow than to-day, and, though she will tell herself that she bears no grudge, it will leave a gulf between us.

For, of course, she must go on acting, and, whatever depressions she may have, she must believe in herself; no one can go on working without it, and I shall always recall to her something harsh and humiliating!' 'Supposing, by any chance, it were not so--supposing I were able to gather up my relation with her again and make it a really friendly one--I should take, I think, a very definite line; I should make up my mind to be of use to her.

After all, it is true what she says: there are many things in me that might be helpful to her, and everything there was she should have the benefit of.