“Threats?” she said, with quiet contempt.  “When you make love, Mr. Moody, you take strange ways of doing it.  My conscience is easy.  You may try to frighten me, but you will not succeed.  When you have recovered your temper I will accept your excuses.”  She paused, and pointed to the table.  “There is the letter that you told me to leave for you when I had sealed it,” she went on.  “I suppose you have her Ladyship’s orders.  Isn’t it time you began to think of obeying them?”

The contemptuous composure of her tone and manner seemed to act on Moody 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.  “I’ll go to Tommie!” she decided.  “I’m sure he’s the more agreeable company of the two.  And—­oh, good gracious! there’s Mr. Hardyman waiting to give me my instructions!  How do I look, I wonder?”

She consulted the glass once more—­gave one or two corrective touches to her hair and her cap—­and hastened into the boudoir.

CHAPTER VI.