But then, thought each,
there was the chance of Ernest's proposing to her, or of Harold's
proposing to her, before I do. That idea made precipitancy positively
imperative; and by the next morning each of the young men had fully made
up his mind to take the first opportunity of asking Isabella Walters to
be his wife. Breakfast passed off very silently, neither of the twins speaking much
to one another; but nobody noticed their reticence much; for the morning
after the occasional orgy or dance is apt to prove a very limp affair
indeed in professional homes, where dances are not of nightly
occurrence. After breakfast, Harold went off quickly to the office, and
Ernest, having bespoken a holiday at the hospital, joined his sister and
Nellie Holt in the library. "Do you know, Ernest," Edie said to him, mindful of her last night's
conversation with her other brother, "I really believe Harold has fallen
desperately in love at first sight with that tall Miss Walters." "I can easily believe it," Ernest answered testily; "she's very handsome
and very clever." Edie raised her eyebrows a little. "But it's awfully foolish, Ernest, to
fall in love blindfold in that way, isn't it now?" she said, with a
searching look at her brother. "He can't possibly know what sort of a
girl she really is from half an hour's conversation in a ballroom." "For my part, I don't at all agree with you, Edie," said Ernest, in his
coldest manner. "I don't believe there's any right way of falling in
love except at first sight. If a girl is going to please you, she ought
to please you instantaneously and instinctively; at least, so I think. It isn't a thing to be thought about and reasoned about, but a thing to
be felt and apprehended intuitively. I couldn't reason myself into
marrying a girl, and what's more, I don't want to." He sat down to the table, took out a sheet or two of initialed
notepaper, and began writing a couple of letters. One of them, which he
marked "Private" in the corner, ran as follows:--

     "MY DEAR MISS WALTERS,

     "Perhaps you will think it very odd of me to venture upon writing
     to you on the strength of such a very brief and casual acquaintance
     as that begun last night; but I have a particular reason for doing
     so, which I think I can justify to you when I see you. You
     mentioned to me that you were asked to the Montagus' steam-launch
     expedition up the river from Surbiton to-morrow; but I understood
     you to say you did not intend to accept the invitation. I write now
     to beg of you to be there, as I am going, and I am particularly
     anxious to meet you and have a little conversation with you on a
     subject of importance. I know you are not a very conventional
     person, and therefore I think you will excuse me for asking this
     favour of you. Please don't take the trouble to write in reply; but
     answer by going to the Montagus', and I shall then be able to
     explain this very queer letter. In haste,

  "Yours very truly,
  "ERNEST CARNEGIE." He read this note two or three times over to himself, looking not very
well satisfied with its contents; and then at last, with the air of a
man who determines to plunge and stake all upon a single venture, he
folded it up and put it in its envelope. "It'll mystify her a little, no
doubt," he thought to himself; "and being a woman, she'll be naturally
anxious to unravel the mystery. But of course she'll know I mean to make
her an offer, and perhaps she'll think me a perfect idiot for not doing
it outright, instead of beating about the bush in this incomprehensible
fashion. However, it's too cold-blooded, proposing to a girl on paper; I
very much prefer the _vivâ voce_ system. It's only till to-morrow; and I
doubt if Harold will manage to be beforehand with me in that time. He'll
be deep in business all morning, and have no leisure to think about her. Anyhow, all's fair in love and war; he said it should be war; and I'll
try to steal a march upon him, for all his lawyer's quibbles and
quiddits." He took another sheet from his blotting-book, and wrote a second note,
much more rapidly than the first one. It ran after this fashion--

     "DEAR MRS. MONTAGU,--

     "Will you think it very rude of me if I ask you to let me be one of
     your party on your expedition up the river to-morrow? I heard of it
     from your son Algernon last night at the Balfours', and I happen to
     be _very_ anxious to meet one of the ladies you have invited. Now,
     I know you're kindness itself to all your young friends in all
     these little matters, and I'm sure you won't be angry with me for
     so coolly inviting myself. If I hadn't felt perfect confidence in
     your invariable goodness, I wouldn't have ventured to do so. Please
     don't answer unless you've no room for me, but expect me to turn up
     at half-past two. "Yours very sincerely,
  "ERNEST CARNEGIE. "P.S.--We might call at Lady Portlebury's lawn, and look over the
     conservatories." "Now, that's bold, but judicious," Ernest said to himself, admiringly,
as he held the letter at arm's-length, after blotting it. "She might
have been angry at my inviting myself, though I don't think she would
be; but I'm sure she'll be only too delighted if I offer to take her
guests over Aunt Portlebury's conservatories. The postscript's a stroke
of genius. What a fuss these people will make, even over the widow of a
stupid old cavalry officer, because her husband happens to have been
knighted. It's all the better that she's a widow, indeed. The delicious
vagueness of the title 'Lady' is certainly one of its chief
recommendations. Sir Antony being out of the way, Mrs. Montagu's guests
can't really tell but that poor dear old Aunt Portlebury may be a real
live Countess." And he folded his second letter up with the full
satisfaction of an approving conscience. When Isabel Walters received Ernest Carnegie's mysterious note, she was
certainly mystified by it as he had expected, and also not a little
gratified. He meant to propose to her, that was certain; and there was
never a woman in the whole world who was not flattered by a handsome
young man's marked attentions. It was a very queer letter, no doubt; but
it had been written skilfully enough to suit the particular personality
of Isabel Walters: for Ernest Carnegie was a keen judge of character,
and he flattered himself that he knew how to adapt his correspondence to
the particular temperament of the persons he happened to be addressing. And though Isabel had no very distinct idea of what the two Carnegies
were severally like (it could hardly have been much more distinct if she
had known them both intimately), she felt they were two very
good-looking, agreeable young men, and she was not particularly averse
to the attentions of either. After all, upon what straws we all usually
hang our love-making!