“Ready,” gasped the girl.  “For what?”

It seemed for the moment as though she had been anticipated in her departure and was about to be put out of the house.

“To drive over to Kent’s,” answered Madame, imperturbably.  From her manner one would have thought the drive had been long planned.

Isabel sat down on her bed.  “I’m not going,” she said.

“Oh, yes, you are,” returned Madame, in a small, thin voice.  “You may go in your tea gown and slippers if you prefer, but I will wait until you dress, if you are quick about it.”

“I won’t,” Isabel announced, flatly.  “I’m sick.  You know I’m all bruised up and I can’t walk.”

“You can walk down-stairs and it’s only a few steps farther to the carriage.  I telephoned over to ask if he would see you, and the nurse said that he would be very glad to see you—­that he had been asking all day why you did not come.  The carriage is waiting at the door, so please hurry.”

Isabel was head and shoulders taller than the determined little lady who stood there, waiting, but there was something in her manner that demanded immediate obedience.  Sullenly, Isabel began to dress.  If Aunt Francesca went with her, it would not be necessary to say much.  She caught at the thought as though she were drowning and the proverbial straw had floated into reach.

She took her time about dressing, but Madame said nothing.  She simply stood there, waiting, in the open door, until the last knot was tied, the last pin adjusted, and the last stray lock brushed into place.

Isabel limped ostentatiously all the way down-stairs and had to be assisted into the carriage.  During the brief drive neither spoke.  The silence was unbroken until they reached the door of Allison’s room, then Madame said, in a low tone:  “The carriage will call for you in an hour.  Remember he loves you, and be kind.”

Up to that moment, Isabel had not suspected that she would be obliged to see him alone.  She was furious with Aunt Francesca for thus betraying her, but no retreat was possible.  The nurse smilingly ushered her in, passed her almost on the threshold, and went out, quietly closing the door.

Allison, as eager as a boy of twenty, had half risen in bed.  The injured hand was hidden by the sheet, but the other was outstretched in welcome.  “Isabel,” he breathed.  “My Isabel!”

Isabel did not move.  “How do you do?” she said primly.

“I’m sorry I can’t get you a chair, dear.  Come close, won’t you?”

Isabel limped painfully to the chair that was farthest from him, dragged it over to the bed, and sat down—­just out of his reach.  Below, the rumble of wheels announced that Madame had gone back home.  Unless she walked, Isabel was stranded at Kent’s for a full hour.

“My note,” Allison was saying.  “You got it, didn’t you?”

“Yes.  It came while I was at luncheon to-day.”