the bank. He ought to have gone to England, his mother said, instead of coming to Florence; he had not been there for months, and he took no more interest in the bank than in the state of Patagonia.
"I am sorry I waked you," Isabel said; "you look tired."
"I feel tired. But I was not asleep. I was thinking of you."
"Are you tired of that?"
"Very much so. It leads to nothing. The road is long and I never arrive."
"What do you wish to arrive at?" Isabel said, closing her parasol.
"At the point of expressing to myself properly what I think of your engagement."
"Don't think too much of it," said Isabel, lightly.
"Do you mean that it's none of my business?"
"Beyond a certain point, yes."
"That's the point I wish to fix. I had an idea that you have found me wanting in good manners; I have never congratulated you."
"Of course I have noticed that; I wondered why you were silent."
"There have been a good many reasons; I will tell you now," said Ralph.
He pulled off his hat and laid it on the ground; then he sat looking at her. He leaned back, with his head against the marble pedestal of Terpsichore, his arms dropped on either side of him, his hands laid upon the sides of his wide chair. He looked awkward, uncomfortable; he hesitated for a long time. Isabel said nothing; when people were embarrassed she was usually sorry for them; but she was determined not to help
