Chapter 10 - Page 2

"A female interviewer--a reporter in petticoats? I'm very curious
to see her," Ralph conceded.

"It's very easy to laugh at her but it is not easy to be as brave
as she."

"I should think not; crimes of violence and attacks on the person
require more or less pluck. Do you suppose she'll interview me?"

"Never in the world. She'll not think you of enough importance."

"You'll see," said Ralph. "She'll send a description of us all,
including Bunchie, to her newspaper."

"I shall ask her not to," Isabel answered.

"You think she's capable of it then?"

"Perfectly."

"And yet you've made her your bosom-friend?"

"I've not made her my bosom-friend; but I like her in spite of
her faults."

"Ah well," said Ralph, "I'm afraid I shall dislike her in spite
of her merits."

"You'll probably fall in love with her at the end of three days."

"And have my love-letters published in the Interviewer? Never!"
cried the young man.

The train presently arrived, and Miss Stackpole, promptly
descending, proved, as Isabel had promised, quite delicately,
even though rather provincially, fair. She was a neat, plump
person, of medium stature, with a round face, a small mouth, a
delicate complexion, a bunch of light brown ringlets at the back
of her head and a peculiarly open, surprised-looking eye. The
most striking point in her appearance was the remarkable
fixedness of this organ, which rested without impudence or
defiance, but as if in conscientious exercise of a natural right,
upon every object it happened to encounter. It rested in this
manner upon Ralph himself, a little arrested by Miss Stackpole's
gracious and comfortable aspect, which hinted that it wouldn't be
so easy as he had assumed to disapprove of her. She rustled, she
shimmered, in fresh, dove-coloured draperies, and Ralph saw at a
glance that she was as crisp and new and comprehensive as a first
issue before the folding. From top to toe she had probably no
misprint. She spoke in a clear, high voice--a voice not rich but
loud; yet after she had taken her place with her companions in
Mr. Touchett's carriage she struck him as not all in the large
type, the type of horrid "headings," that he had expected. She
answered the enquiries made of her by Isabel, however, and in
which the young man ventured to join, with copious lucidity; and
later, in the library at Gardencourt, when she had made the
acquaintance of Mr. Touchett (his wife not having thought it
necessary to appear) did more to give the measure of her
confidence in her powers.

"Well, I should like to know whether you consider yourselves
American or English," she broke out. "If once I knew I could talk