“I’m afraid we haven’t done as much as we might to make it pleasant for you,” Madame continued, regretfully, “but we’ll try to do better and doubtless can, now that the weather is improving.”

“It’s been lots nicer than staying alone in a hotel,” the girl answered.  “I used to go to the matinee a good deal, but I didn’t know very many people and it’s no fun to go alone.  Don’t you and Rose ever go, Aunt Francesca?”

“I go sometimes,” said Rose, “but I can’t even get her started.”

The little grey lady laughed and tapped the arm of her chair with her folded fan.  “I fully agree with the clever man who said that ’life would be very endurable were it not for its pleasures.’  Far back, somewhere, there must be a strain of Scotch ancestry in me, for I ’take my pleasure sadly.’”

“Which means,” commented Rose, “that the things other people find amusing do not necessarily amuse you.”

“Possibly,” Madame assented, with a shrug of her delicate shoulders, “but unless I’m obliged to, I won’t sit in an uncomfortable chair, in a crowd, surrounded by many perfumes unhappily mixed, be played to by a bad orchestra, walked on at will by rude men, and, in the meantime, watch the exaggerated antics of people who cannot make themselves heard, even in a room with only three sides to it.”

“I took her to a ‘musical comedy’ once, in a frivolous moment,” explained Rose, “and she’s never forgiven me.”

“Why remind me of it?” questioned Madame.  “I’ve been endeavouring for years to forget it.”

Isabel’s eyes wandered anxiously to the clock.  She had a strong impulse to go to the window again, but remembered that Madame would not approve.

Presently there was the sound of wheels outside, and Allison, very handsome in his evening clothes, came in with an apology for his tardiness.  After greeting Madame Bernard and Rose, he bowed to Isabel, with a mock deference which, none the less, contained subtle flattery.

“Silver Girl,” he said, “you do me too much honour.  I’m not at all sure that one escort is sufficient for so much loveliness.”

Isabel smiled, then dimpled irresistibly.  She had a secret sense of triumph which she did not stop to analyse.

“Come,” he said.  “In the words of the poet, ‘the carriage waits.’”

They said good-night to the others, and went out.  There was silence in the room until the sound of wheels had quite died away, then Rose sighed.  With a swift pang, she envied Isabel’s glorious youth, then the blood retreated from her heart in shame.

Madame sighed too, but for a different reason.  “I suppose I shouldn’t say it,” she remarked, “but it’s a relief to have that dear child out of the house for a little while.”

“It’s kind of Allison to take her,” Rose answered, trying not to wish that she might change places with Isabel.

“Very kind.  The Kents are singularly decent about everything.  I suppose it was Allison who managed to have Romeo Crosby call upon her the other evening.”