_Isabel_. In the cedar-chest of indifference--the key of which is usually
lost.
_Oberville_. Ah, Isabel, you're too pat! How much I preferred your
hesitations.
_Isabel_. My hesitations? That reminds me how much your coming has
simplified things. I feel as if I'd had an auction sale of fallacies.
_Oberville_. You speak in enigmas, and I have a notion that your riddles
are the reverse of the sphinx's--more dangerous to guess than to give up.
And yet I used to find your thoughts such good reading.
_Isabel_. One cares so little for the style in which one's praises are
written.
_Oberville_. You've been praising me for the last ten minutes and I find
your style detestable. I would rather have you find fault with me like a
friend than approve me like a _dilettante_.
_Isabel_. A _dilettante_! The very word I wanted!
_Oberville_. I am proud to have enriched so full a vocabulary. But I am
still waiting for the word _I_ want. (_He grows serious_.) Isabel, look in
your heart--give me the first word you find there. You've no idea how much
a beggar can buy with a penny!
_Isabel_. It's empty, my poor friend, it's empty.
_Oberville_. Beggars never say that to each other.
_Isabel_. No; never, unless it's true.
_Oberville (after another silence)_. Why do you look at me so curiously?
_Isabel_. I'm--what was it you said? Approving you as a _dilettante_.
Don't be alarmed; you can bear examination; I don't see a crack anywhere.
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