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Page 24
Madame Bernard had looked forward to Isabel's visit with a certain
apprehension, remembering Mrs. Ross's unbecoming gowns and careless
coiffures. But the girl's passion for clothes, amounting almost to a
complete "reversion to type," had at once relieved and alarmed her. "If
I can strike a balance for her," she had said to herself in a certain
midnight musing, "I shall do very well."
As yet, however, Isabel had failed to "balance." She dressed for morning
and luncheon and afternoon, and again for dinner, changing to street
gowns when necessary and doing her hair in a different way for each
gown. Still, as Rose had said, she "suited herself," for she was always
immaculate, beautifully clad, and a joy to behold.
Madame Bernard greatly approved of the lovely white wool house gown
Isabel was wearing. She had no fault to find with the girl's taste, but
she wished to subordinate, as it were, the thing to the spirit; the
temple to the purpose for which it was made.
Isabel smiled at her sweetly as she folded up her work--a little
uncomprehending smile. "Are you going away now for your 'forty winks,'
Aunt Francesca?"
"Yes, my dear. Can you amuse yourself for an hour or so without playing
upon the piano?"
"Certainly. I didn't know that you and Cousin Rose were asleep
yesterday, or I wouldn't have played."
"Of course not." Madame leaned over her and stroked the dark hair, waved
and coiled in quite the latest fashion. "There are plenty of books and
magazines in the library."
Madame went upstairs, followed at a respectful distance by Mr. Boffin,
waving his plumed tail. He, too, took his afternoon nap, curled up
cosily upon the silken quilt at the foot of his mistress's couch. In the
room adjoining, Rose rested for an hour also, though she usually spent
the time with a book.
Left to herself, Isabel walked back and forth idly, greatly allured by
the forbidden piano. She looked over, carelessly, the pile of violin
music Allison had left there. Some of the sheets were torn and had been
pasted together, all were marked in pencil with hieroglyphics, and most
of them were stamped, in purple, "Allison Kent," with a Berlin or Paris
address written in below.
Isabel had met very few men, in the course of her twenty years. For this
reason, possibly, she remembered every detail of the two weeks she had
spent at Aunt Francesca's and the hours with Allison, on the veranda,
when he chose to amuse himself with the pretty, credulous child. It
seemed odd to have him coming to the house again, though, unless he came
to dinner, he usually spent the time playing, to Rose's accompaniment.
She had not seen him alone.
She surveyed herself in the long, gilt-framed mirror, and was well
pleased with the image of youth and beauty the mirror gave back. The
bell rang and she pinned up a stray lock carefully. It was probably
someone to see Aunt Francesca, but there was a pleasing doubt. It might
be the twins, though she had not returned their call.
Presently Allison came in, his cheeks glowing from his long walk in the
cold. "Silver Girl," he smiled, "where are the spangles, and are you
alone?"
"The spangles are upstairs waiting for candlelight," answered Isabel, as
he took her small, cool hand, "and I'm very much alone--or was."
"Where are the others?"
"Taking naps."
"I hope I haven't tired Rose out," said Allison, offering Isabel a
chair. He had unconsciously dropped the prefix of "Cousin." "We've been
working hard lately."
"Is she going with you on your tour?"
"I don't know. I wish she could go, but I haven't the heart to drag
father or Aunt Francesca along with us, and otherwise, it would be--
well, unconventional, you know. The conventions make me dead tired," he
added, with evident sincerity.
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