More often than not, Isabel dined alone in the big dining-room downstairs, and spent a lonely evening with a novel and a box of chocolates.  On pleasant days, she amused herself by going through the shops and to the matinee.  She did not make friends easily and the splendid isolation common to hotels and desert islands left her stranded, socially.  She had been very glad to accept Aunt Francesca’s invitation, and the mother, looking back through her years of “world service” to the quiet old house and dream-haunted garden, had thought it would be a good place for Isabel for a time, and had hoped she might not find it too dull to endure.

Madame Bernard had no patience with Mrs. Ross.  When she had come for a brief holiday, fifteen years before, bringing her child with her, she had just begun to be influenced by the modern feminine unrest.  Later she had definitely allied herself with those whose mission it is to emancipate Woman—­with a capital W—­from her chains, forgetting that these are of her own forging, and anchor her to the eternal verities of earth and heaven.

A single swift stroke had freed Mrs. Ross from her own “bondage.”  Isabel’s father had died, while her mother was out upon a lecturing tour—­in a hotel, which is the most miserable place in the world to die in.  The housekeeper and chambermaids had befriended Isabel until the tour came to its triumphant conclusion.  Mrs. Ross had seemed to consider the whole affair a kindly and appropriate recognition of her abilities, on the part of Providence.  She attempted to fit Isabel for the duties of a private secretary, but failed miserably, and, greatly to Isabel’s relief, gave up the idea.

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.”