Just a minute or
two. I want to tell you: brother George has been here, and he told me
everything about--about how unhappy you'd been--and how you went so
gallantly to that old woman with the operaglasses." Isabel gave a sad
little laugh. "What a terrible old woman she is! What a really
terrible thing a vulgar old woman can be!"
"Mother, I--" And again he moved to rise.
"Must you? It seemed to me such a comfortable way to talk. Well--"
She yielded; he rose, helped her to her feet, and pressed the light
into being.
As the room took life from the sudden lines of fire within the bulbs
Isabel made a deprecatory gesture, and, with a faint laugh of
apologetic protest, turned quickly away from George. What she meant
was: "You mustn't see my face until I've made it nicer for you."
Then she turned again to him, her eyes downcast, but no sign of tears
in them, and she contrived to show him that there was the semblance of
a smile upon her lips. She still wore her hat, and in her unsteady
fingers she held a white envelope, somewhat crumpled.
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