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Page 25
"And yet," said Isabel, looking into the fire, "they are all in the
interests of morality. If you're conventional, you'll be good,
negatively. It isn't good manners for a man to shoot a lady or to sign a
check with another man's name and get it cashed. If you're conventional,
you're not always explaining things."
"Very true," laughed Allison, "but sometimes 'the greatest good for the
greatest number' bears heavily upon the few."
"Of course," Isabel agreed, after a moment's pause. "Your friends, the
Crosby twins, have called," she continued.
"Really?" Allison asked, with interest. "How do you like them?"
"I wish they'd come often," she smiled. "They remind me of a field of
red clover, they're so breezy and so wholesome."
"I must hunt 'em up," he returned, absently. "They used to be regular
little devils. It's a shame for them to have all that money."
"Why?"
"Because they'll waste it. They don't know how to use it."
"Perhaps they do, in a way. One Fourth of July they gave every orphan in
the Orphans' Home two dollars' worth of fireworks. Anybody else would
have wasted the money on shoes, or hats."
"I see you haven't grown up. Would you rather have fireworks than
clothes?"
"There is a time in life when one sky-rocket can give more pleasure than
a pair of shoes, and the gift of pleasure is the finest gift in the
world."
Allison was agreeably surprised, for hitherto Isabel's conversation had
consisted mainly of monosyllables and platitudes, or the hesitating echo
of someone's else opinion. Now he perceived that it was shyness; that
Isabel had a mind of her own, and an unusual mind, at that. He looked at
her quickly and the colour bloomed upon her pale, cold face.
"Tell me, little playmate, what have the years done for you since you
went out and pulled up the rose bushes to find the scent bottles?"
"Nothing," she answered, not knowing what else to say.
"Still looking for the unattainable?"
"Yes, if you like to put it that way."
"Where's your mother?"
"Out lecturing."
"What about?"
"The Bloodless Revolution, or the Gradual Emancipation of Woman," she
repeated, parrot-like.
"Her work must keep her away from home a great deal," he ventured, after
a pause.
"Yes. I seldom see her."
"You must be lonely."
She turned her dark eyes to his. "I live in a hotel," she said.
In the simple answer, Allison saw an unmeasured loneliness, coupled with
a certain loyalty to her mother. He changed the subject.
"You like it here, don't you?"
"Yes, indeed. Aunt Francesca is lovely and so is Cousin Rose. I wish,"
she went on, with a little sigh as she glanced about the comfortable
room, "that I could always stay here." The child-like appeal in her tone
set Allison's heart to beating a little faster.
"I wish you could," he said. Remorsefully, he remembered the long hours
he had spent with Rose at the piano, happily oblivious of Isabel.
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