As he looked at me, the whole field of possibilities seemed opened. I
must have been mistaken in thinking this marriage impossible and
incongruous. What incongruity could there be in Isaacs marrying Miss
Westonhaugh? My conclusions were false. Why must he necessarily return
with her to England, and wear a red coat, and make himself ridiculous at
the borough elections? Why should not this ideal couple choose some
happy spot, as far from the corrosive influence of Anglo-Saxon prejudice
as from the wretched sensualism of prosperous life east of the
Mediterranean? I was carried away by the idea, returning with redoubled
strength as a sequel to what I had argued and to what I had guessed.
"Why not?" was the question I repeated to myself over and over again in
the half minute's pause after Isaacs finished speaking.

"You are right," he said slowly, his half-closed eyes fixed on his feet.
"Yes, you are right. Why not? Indeed, indeed, why not?"

It must have been pure guess-work, this reading of my thoughts. When he
was last speaking his manner was all indifference, scorn of my ideas,
and defiance of every western mode of reasoning. And now, apparently by
pure intuition, he gave a direct answer to the direct question I had
mentally asked, and, what is more, his answer came with a quiet,
far-away tone of conviction that had not a shade of unbelief in it. It
was delivered as monotonously and naturally as a Christian says "Credo
in unum Deum," as if it were not worth disputing; or as the devout
Mussulman says "La Illah illallah," not stooping to consider the
existence of any one bold enough to deny the dogma. No argument, not
hours of patient reasoning, or weeks of well directed persuasion, could
have wrought the change in the man's tone that came over it at the mere
mention of the woman he loved. I had no share in his conversion. My