deeply moved; and yet, by that very emotion she knew that it was not to
the love of this wooer that her heart responded.

There is a circumstance in the history of courtship familiar to the
experience of many women, that while the suitor is pleading his cause,
his language may touch every fibre in the heart of his listener, yet
substitute, as it were, another presence for his own. She may be saying
to herself, "Oh that another had said those words!" and be dreaming of
the other, while she hears the one. Thus it was with Isaura, and not
till Rameau's voice had ceased did that dream pass away, and with a
slight shiver she turned her face towards the wooer sadly and pityingly.
"It cannot be," she said, in a low whisper; "I were not worthy of your
love could I accept it. Forget that you have so spoken; let me still be
a friend admiring your genius, interested in your career. I cannot be
more. Forgive me if I unconsciously led you to think I could, I am so
grieved to pain you."

"Am I to understand," said Rameau, coldly, for his _amour propre_ was
resentful, "that the proposals of another have been more fortunate than
mine?" And he named the youngest and comeliest of those whom she had
rejected. "Certainly not," said Isaura.

Rameau rose and went to the window, turning his face from her. In
reality he was striving to collect his thoughts and decide on the course
it were most prudent for him now to pursue. The fumes of the absinthe
which had, despite his previous forebodings, emboldened him to hazard his
avowal, had now subsided into the languid reaction which is generally
consequent on that treacherous stimulus, a reaction not unfavourable to
passionless reflection. He knew that if he said he could not conquer his
love, he would still cling to hope, and trust to perseverance and time,