Never having seen Madame angry before, Rose was almost frightened.  She herself was not angry, but hurt—­for him.  At the moment she heard of the accident, her love for him had transcended the bounds of self and merged into prayer for him and for his good, whatever that might prove to be.

“Isabel,” said Rose, very softly, “will you do one thing for me?”

“What?” Isabel demanded, suspiciously.

“Listen, dear.  For me, if not for him, will you go to him, and—­well, simply be kind?  Don’t let him think that this terrible thing has separated him from you or changed your love.  Wait until he is strong and well again before you tell him.  Will you, please?”

Isabel’s flushed face took on the expression of outraged virtue.  “I don’t know why I should be expected to lie,” she remarked evasively, with a subtle change of manner.

Madame Bernard cleared her throat.  “Your love was a lie,” she said, in a tone that neither of them had ever heard her use before.  “One more won’t matter.”

Isabel fidgeted in her chair and nervously tapped the edge of her plate with her fork.  “I haven’t heard anybody say,” she began, with the air of one scoring a fine point, “that his father doesn’t love him, and yet he hasn’t gone near him—­hasn’t even seen him since we were hurt.  If Colonel Kent can stay away from him, I don’t know why I can’t.”

The argument seemed unanswerable, for neither Madame nor Rose spoke.  They sat with averted eyes until the silence became oppressive, and Isabel, with ostentatious difficulty, pushed back her chair and limped painfully out of the room.

When she had locked her own door, she was more at ease, and began to survey her unpleasant situation.  Nobody seemed to consider her at all—­ it was only Allison, and everything and everybody, apparently, must be sacrificed for him.  Just because she had promised to marry him, when he had both hands, they wanted her to go on with it, in spite of the fact that he saw it was impossible.

Isabel sighed heavily.  Nobody knew how keenly disappointed she was.  She had written to her few friends, told them about her engagement ring, the plans made for her trousseau, the promised touring car, and the brilliant social career that lay before her as the wife of a famous violinist.

She pictured a triumphal tour from city to city, with the leaders of fashion everywhere vying with each other in entertaining them—­or, at least, her.  It would, of course, be necessary for Allison to play occasionally in the evening and they would miss a great deal on that account, but her days would be free, and she could cancel all her own social obligations by complimentary tickets and suppers after the concerts.

She had planned it all as she took lazy stitches in her dainty lingerie.  Aunt Francesca and Rose had been helping her, but the whole thing had stopped suddenly.  It seemed rather selfish of them not to go on with it, for lingerie was always useful, and even though she should not marry Allison, it was not at all improbable that she would marry someone else.