(Isabella sighs and looks at you with sad eyes. She obviously very much wished for you to hear what she had to say. She smiles kindly, if wistfully.)
Very well, then. I understand; if you feel that you cannot swear your word to such a thing, then I will not hold it against you.
(She looks up at someone behind you, and you turn as well. You see a man dressed in fine, but not ostentatious clothes, enter the room. He is of medium height and build, with sandy brown hair and piercing blue eyes; really, a very normal-looking specimen of English aristocracy. His breeches are fawn-colored, his shirt pristinely white, his waistcoat a light gold with stripes of darker gold running vertically across it, and his coat is navy blue. He approaches Isabella and gives her a tender, loving kiss, even though to do so in the presence of company is quite unconventional. It is obvious that they love each other very much. The man then turns to you.)
::Man:: My dear, Robert told me we had a visitor . . .
::Isabella:: Oh, yes. My friend, may I present Sir James Whitsfield, my husband. I'm sure you and he will wish to speak together.
(She gives Sir James an almost imperceptible shake of the head, to let him know that whatever the secret was, you are not to be let in on it.)
::Sir James:: Yes, I must tell you my side of the story, what? Isabella, you haven't already got that far, have you?
::Isabella:: No, dearest. I haven't; I left you that honor.
::Sir James:: Then, friend, may I suggest we take a walk in the garden? It's so peaceful there . . . and the story I have to tell is most pleasant; the garden would be a fitting setting for such a tale.
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