They talked of the matters naturally in order; her uncle's death, Ralph's state of health, the way she had passed her winter, her visit to Rome, her return to Florence, her plans for the summer, the hotel she was staying at; and then of Lord Warburton's own adventures, movements, intentions, impressions and present domicile.

At last there was a silence, and it said so much more than either had said that it scarce needed his final words.

"I've written to you several times." "Written to me?
I've never had your letters." "I never sent them.

I burned them up." "Ah," laughed Isabel, "it was better that you should do that than I!" "I thought you wouldn't care for them," he went on with a simplicity that touched her.

"It seemed to me that after all I had no right to trouble you with letters." "I should have been very glad to have news of you.