with crushing effect. Without a word of answer, the unfortunate steward
took up the letter from the table. Without a word of answer, he walked
mechanically to the great door which opened on the staircase--turned on
the threshold to look at Isabel--waited a moment, pale and still--and
suddenly left the room.

That silent departure, that hopeless submission, impressed Isabel in
spite of herself. The sustaining sense of injury and insult sank, as it
were, from under her the moment she was alone. He had not been gone a
minute before she began to be sorry for him once more. The interview had
taught her nothing. She was neither old enough nor experienced enough
to understand the overwhelming revolution produced in a man's character
when he feels the passion of love for the first time in the maturity of
his life. If Moody had stolen a kiss at the first opportunity, she would
have resented the liberty he had taken with her; but she would have
thoroughly understood him. His terrible earnestness, his overpowering
agitation, his abrupt violence--all these evidences of a passion that
was a mystery to himself--simply puzzled her. "I'm sure I didn't wish to
hurt his feelings" (such was the form that her reflections took, in her
present penitent frame of mind); "but why did he provoke me? It is a
shame to tell me that I love some other man--when there is no other man.
I declare I begin to hate the men, if they are all like Mr. Moody. I
wonder whether he will forgive me when he sees me again? I'm sure I'm
willing to forget and forgive on my side--especially if he won't insist
on my being fond of him because he is fond of me. Oh, dear! I wish he
would come back and shake hands. It's enough to try the patience of a
saint to be treated in this way. I wish I was ugly! The ugly ones have
a quiet time of it--the men let them be. Mr. Moody! Mr. Moody!" She went
out to the landing and called to him softly. There was no answer. He was
no longer in the house. She stood still for a moment in silent vexation.