FullReads

Warland (preoccupied). Eh?–Ah, yes–exactly. What was I saying? Oh– about the report of your engagement. (Playfully.) He was awfully gone on you, wasn’t he?

Isabel. It’s not for me to diminish your triumph.

Warland. By Jove, I can’t think why Mrs. Raynor didn’t tell me he was coming. A man like that–one doesn’t take him for granted, like the piano- tuner! I wonder I didn’t see it in the papers.

Isabel. Is he grown such a great man?

Warland. Oberville? Great? John Oberville? I’ll tell you what he is–the power behind the throne, the black Pope, the King-maker and all the rest of it. Don’t you read the papers? Of course I’ll never get on if you won’t interest yourself in politics. And to think you might have married that man!

Isabel. And got you your secretaryship!

Warland. Oberville has them all in the hollow of his hand.

Isabel. Well, you’ll see him at five o’clock.

Warland. I don’t suppose he’s ever heard of me, worse luck! (A silence.) Isabel, look here. I never ask questions, do I? But it was so long ago–and Oberville almost belongs to history–he will one of these days at any rate. Just tell me–did he want to marry you?

Isabel. Since you answer for his immortality–(after a pause) I was very much in love with him.

Warland. Then of course he did. (Another pause.) But what in the world–

Isabel (musing). As you say, it was so long ago; I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you. There was a married woman who had–what is the correct expression?–made sacrifices for him. There was only one sacrifice she objected to making–and he didn’t consider himself free. It sounds rather rococo, doesn’t it? It was odd that she died the year after we were married.

Warland. Whew!

Isabel (following her own thoughts). I’ve never seen him since; it must be ten years ago. I’m certainly thirty-two, and I was just twenty-two then. It’s curious to talk of it. I had put it away so carefully. How it smells of camphor! And what an old-fashioned cut it has! (Rising.) Where’s the list, Lucius? You wanted to know if there were to be people at dinner tonight–

Warland. Here it is–but never mind. Isabel–(silence) Isabel–

Isabel. Well?

Warland. It’s odd he never married.

Isabel. The comparison is to my disadvantage. But then I met you.

Warland. Don’t be so confoundedly sarcastic. I wonder how he’ll feel about seeing you. Oh, I don’t mean any sentimental rot, of course… but you’re an uncommonly agreeable woman. I daresay he’ll be pleased to see you again; you’re fifty times more attractive than when I married you.

Isabel. I wish your other investments had appreciated at the same rate. Unfortunately my charms won’t pay the butcher.

Warland. Damn the butcher!

Isabel. I happened to mention him because he’s just written again; but I might as well have said the baker or the candlestick-maker. The candlestick-maker–I wonder what he is, by the way? He must have more faith in human nature than the others, for I haven’t heard from him yet. I wonder if there is a Creditor’s Polite Letter-writer which they all consult; their style is so exactly alike. I advise you to pass through New York incognito on your way to Washington; their attentions might be oppressive.

Warland. Confoundedly oppressive. What a dog’s life it is! My poor Isabel–

Isabel. Don’t pity me. I didn’t marry yon for a home.

Warland (after a pause). What did you marry me for, if you cared for Oberville? (Another pause.) Eh?

Isabel, Don’t make me regret my confidence.

Warland. I beg your pardon.

Isabel. Oh, it was only a subterfuge to conceal the fact that I have no distinct recollection of my reasons. The fact is, a girl’s motives in marrying are like a passport–apt to get mislaid. One is so seldom asked for either. But mine certainly couldn’t have been mercenary: I never heard a mother praise you to her daughters.

Warland. No, I never was much of a match.

Isabel. You impugn my judgment.