banish that look, if she might, that Isabelle had deliberately
stopped him here.

She had been behaving badly toward him, and in her rather
irresponsible and shallow way she was sorry for it. Isabelle was a
famous flirt, her husband knew it, everyone knew it. There was
always some man paying desperate court to her, and always half-a-
dozen other men who were eager to be in his place. Now it was a
painter, now a singer, now one of the men of her husband's
business world. They sent her orchids and sweets, and odd bits of
jewellery, and curious fans and laces, and pictures and brasses,
and quaint pieces of china. They sent her tremendously significant
letters, just the eloquent word or two, the little oddity of date
or signature or paper that was to impress her with an
individuality, or with the depth of a passion. Isabelle lived for
this, went from one adventure to another with the naive confidence
of a woman whose husband smiles upon her playing, and whose
position is impregnable.

But this boy, this Anthony, was different. In the first place he
was young, he was but twenty-six. In the second place he was, or
had been, her own son's closest friend. Ward Carter was twenty-
two, and his mother nineteen years older.

Yes, she was forty-one, although neither she nor her mirror
admitted it readily. Anthony, she thought, must realize it. He
must realize that his feeling for her was unthinkable, not to say
absurd. It had taken her by surprise, this last conquest. She had
known the boy only a few weeks. Ward had brought him home for a
visit, at Easter, but Isabelle, besides admiring his unusual