Her presence proved somehow less irreducible to soft particles than Ralph had expected in the natural perturbation of his sense of the perfect solubility of that of his cousin; for the correspondent of the Interviewer prompted mirth in him, and he had long since decided that the crescendo of mirth should be the flower of his declining days.
Henrietta, on her side, failed a little to justify Isabel's declaration with regard to her indifference to masculine opinion; for poor Ralph appeared to have presented himself to her as an irritating problem, which it would be almost immoral not to work out.
"What does he do for a living ?" she asked of Isabel the evening of her arrival.

"Does he go round all day with his hands in his pockets ?" "He does nothing," smiled Isabel; "he's a gentleman of large leisure." "Well, I call that a shame--when I have to work like a car-conductor," Miss Stackpole replied.

"I should like to show him up." "He's in wretched health; he's quite unfit for work," Isabel urged.
"Pshaw! don't you believe it.

I work when I'm sick," cried her friend.
Later, when she stepped into the boat on joining the water-party, she remarked to Ralph that she supposed he hated her and would like to drown her.
"Ah no," said Ralph, "I keep my victims for a slower torture.

And you'd be such an interesting one!" "Well, you do torture me; I may say that.